The Illusionist
by Haunted Obsidian
Summary: AUish. John doesn't exactly cope well after Sam leaves for Stanford, leaving Dean to pick up the pieces. Abusive!John in later chapters, and Deaf!Dean.
1. Prologue

**The Illusionist**

**Prologue**

Something wasn't right. Call it a gut feeling, intuition, or whatever it was; but he knew something was wrong.

He quickened his pace, tightening his grip on the greasy bag that contained their dinner. Somewhere in the back of his mind though, he had a feeling it would remain uneaten tonight.

The cold rain started to come down harder, the fat drops mercilessly stinging the back of his hands and neck. The twenty-two year old shivered involuntarily, something just shy of relief flooding his system as the motel room he was currently sharing with his father and brother came into view.

Fishing the key from the pocket of his over-sized brown leather jacket, Dean opened the door and stepped in, shaking the water off his dripping frame. He was ready for a joke from Sam, the younger hunter comparing him to a wet dog or something along those lines, but instead he was met with the sight of his father and brother shouting in each other's faces.

He tried desperately to understand what they were saying, but their mouths were moving so fast, that it was an impossible task. His eyes darted to the hearing aide that lay on the nightstand, but ultimately, he knew it wouldn't help. Their shouts would only sound like muffled whispers, the device only managing to pick up so much with the severity of his hearing loss.

Dean's brow furrowed as he moved closer to them, taking in the fact that both men's faces were reddening in color, and even though he was deaf, he could tell by the veins popping out in both their throats that the argument was growing louder and more intense.

He wanted to scream and shout too, tell them to shut up and stop behaving like children, but at this point, his efforts would have fallen short. Hell, they hadn't even realized he was in the room with them yet.

His green orbs danced back and forth between the two Winchesters, taking note that the younger was shoving what looked like a letter into the other one's hardened face. This action resulted in the elder man's features somehow managing to darken yet again, veins now clearly showcasing themselves in his forehead as well.

Dean could feel the panic start to tighten in his chest. He'd seen his family argue before, but something about this argument in particular seemed different. There was something in his father's eyes he couldn't quite place, an emotion that John had disguised well since their mother had died; pain.

The piece of paper Sam was continuing to use as his shield caught Dean's attention once more, leaving him wondering what the hell was so bad about the thing that it had caused this fight.

Sure, the eldest and youngest Winchesters had been arguing quite a bit in the past few years, even more so lately, but it was almost to be expected. After all, Sam had just turned eighteen and was a full-fledged adult now; but then again, it didn't help that he was just as stubborn as John, if not more.

But now, it looked as though the fight might actually turn physical, and that was definitely something that had never happened before.

Even though he still had a few accidental bruises from their last bout, Dean moved forward, forcing himself in between the two men, all the while ignoring the split second of confusion that graced both their visages.

"_What is going on?"_ The twenty-two year old signed to his brother, attempting to distract the kid long enough to take his attention away from their father. He silently pleaded with Sam, his green eyes swimming in misery. Dean hated to see them fight, and the fact that his little brother refused to meet his gaze only signified how bad their current situation truly was.

"_Sammie?"_ He tried again, inwardly hoping that would grab the teenager's awareness, knowing how much he hated the childhood nickname. Instead of receiving an explanation of what was going on, he was met with a two word response; one he was definitely not expecting.

"I'm leaving."

Dean shook his head, fully knowing his eyes were not deceiving him, but all the while praying he had read those stubborn lips wrong.

"_You're kidding, right?"_ The twenty-two year old asked, immediately stepping in front of Sam, and blocking his path to the fully packed duffel that lay on the already made bed. "_You're not actually leaving, right?"_ He frantically searched Sam's face for an answer, but received nothing in return. Slowly, the bold letters on the piece of paper his younger brother was holding came into view.

**Stanford University**

Dean's heart dropped as he read those two words over and over again, finally realizing what his father and brother were arguing about.

An odd sort of numbness replaced the panic that had been holding his chest captive, and with each passing second, it coursed throughout his bloodstream, rendering him temporarily immobile.

He watched as Sam moved past him and removed the duffel bag from the comfort of the bed. Watched as the brunette slung the green material over his shoulders and headed for the door, though his heart quickened as Sam hesitated at the threshold. Casting a quick glance at his father, he understood why.

"If you walk out that door, don't you even think about coming back."

And with that, Dean watched as all signs of reluctance disappeared from his younger brother's posture; the motel door opened and closed with obvious force, the cheap picture that was hanging on the wall now lay on the floor.

The young hunter stood there for a moment, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Instantaneously, he ran to the door and threw it open, his mouth opening but no sound befalling his lips as he watched the yellow taxi carrying Sam disappear down the street.

He couldn't let his little brother just leave like that. He couldn't!

But before he could even take another step, he felt his father's strong hands clasp onto his shoulders, pulling him back inside. Dean fought wildly to escape John's iron grip, but it was no use, the elder Winchester was stronger.

"Stop it, Dean! Just stop it, Godammit!" John exclaimed, squeezing his son's upper arms so hard that there were sure to be bruises by morning. "He's made his choice, and he's not coming back so just deal with it!"

Dean kept his eyes closed, fully knowing that his father was screaming in his face, but he didn't really care what the man was saying. He just wanted his little brother back, and for everything to be normal, well, Winchester-normal anyway.

Slowly, he felt his father's grip loosen and the smell of coffee-laden breath fade away. Before he knew it, Dean was alone in the dingy motel room; his world all but laying in a million little pieces at his feet.

And there was any supernatural force in the world that could change it.

**A/N : Okay, so I might be a little rusty cos it has been awhile, but I only hope I did the characters at least a little bit of justice. This story will be a WIP, so I hope I can keep whoever reads this entertained! :D Plenty of angst to come. **


	2. Bitter Sweet Symphony

**The Illusionist**

**Chapter 1 : Bitter Sweet Symphony**

Dean paused for a moment, wiping the sheet of sweat off his forehead. Letting out a silent sigh, he went back to digging, ignoring the chilly autumn air that was starting to seep through his clothes and into his bones.

He was trying his damnedest to ignore his protesting muscles and sore limbs and blistered fingers, but he continued on, knowing his father was standing above him, watching his every move.

This would be the third salt-and-burn they'd done this week, and with the way his father was going, they'd more than likely be on the next one by tomorrow night.

It had been four months since Sam had left for Stanford, and they'd been going non-stop since then.

Dean had literally seen thousands of miles pass by from the window of the Impala as the two remaining Winchesters zigzagged across the country. And after each Sammy-less mile they drove, he could feel the void left by his brother grow a little more, and the ache in chest expand inch by inch.

He wanted so badly to at least go and check on the teen, even bringing the idea up once to John, but the look of pure anger his father had given him quickly forced that thought to dissipate. He'd managed to text Sam a few times, but never received any sort of reply.

_Probably changed his number, _Dean had told himself, all the while knowing better. He wasn't apart of Sam's life anymore, a fact he couldn't face. Denial seemed to be his best friend nowadays.

Forcing away an involuntary shiver, he continued to dig until the shovel hit wood. Using what was left of his strength, the twenty-two year old broke the coffin open, sending splinters and dirt flying.

He was about to give the thumbs up to John as a go ahead for the salt pouring, but was instead met with a ghostly shove, the force sending him ten feet in the air and then back down to the not-so-soft ground below.

It took him a few minutes to stir from his temporary unconscious state, the grave already on fire by the time he came to. Before he could even make it over to his father, Dean could see the look of sheer disappointment dancing in the man's eyes, highlighted even more by the billowing flames.

Immediately, he felt his heart sink, knowing he'd managed to upset John again. He was trying so hard, but he knew that the only thing his father was thinking about was how badly he needed Sam there. Without the youngest Winchester around, Dean was useless.

* * *

The laughter faded in and out, like the volume being turned up and down on a radio. One minute it was there, the next it was gone.

Dean looked up from the gun he was cleaning to see his little brother and father attempting to take on what appeared to be a rather large fish, a smiling Sam holding on for dear life to the rod clutched tightly in his hands.

They were standing on a deck, a lake shimmering with the clearest blue water Dean had ever seen surrounding them. He was seated a good ten feet away from the other two Winchesters, nearer to the land.

"You're doing great buddy. You've almost got 'em," Dean could hear John say, the man's deep voice a faded whisper in his eldest son's ears.

Within seconds, the volume had been turned back up again, Sam laughing wildly as he reeled the large bass in, happiness dancing in his hazel eyes.

"I'm proud of you, son."

The words reverberated in the middle Winchester's brain, growing louder and louder with each echo until he couldn't stand it anymore. The gun that he was holding fell down to the wood below, his hands immediately going to cover his ears, involuntary tears forming in his tightly shut eyes.

"Thanks, Dad."

Dean wanted to scream it was so loud now, making his head feel as though it were about to explode.

And then all at once, it stopped again, and he was left with complete and total silence. When the twenty-two year old opened his eyes, the clear blue water that his family had been fishing in was now a deep sea of red, the crimson water lapping at the foot of the deck he was now standing on the edge of.

Dark green skies painted the once sunny horizon, bolts of lightning clashing through them angrily. Rain began to pour, its sound the only thing Dean could currently hear. His gaze slowly drifted from the ominous sky to the water below, and that's when he saw them, the limbs rising from the lake.

Their bony fingers curled upwards, rotting flesh hanging loosely from the corpses' bodies. Slowly but surely, they made their way over to the wooden structure, stirring a fear in Dean that he hadn't felt in too long of a time.

"What are you doing?" John's voice cut harshly through his thoughts. "Don't just stand there, get 'em!"

The younger hunter's head immediately jerked in the direction of his father's voice, he so badly wanting to say or do something, but he was frozen, super-glued to the spot he was standing in.

"Dammit, Dean, do I have to do everything? Stop acting like an idiot and get them!"

Dean continued to stare at the man with fear in his green eyes, still immobile from the waist down. He tried to scream, but his voice was gone, cast out into the darkness behind him.

"You really are pathetic, aren't you?" His father was standing right next to him now, so close the twenty-two year old could feel the man's facial hairs brush against his ear. "And useless. You should have been the one that left! Why couldn't you have been the one to walk out the door? Why Sammy?"

Dean stared in horror at the elder hunter, tears teasing his eyes once more.

The anger that was clearly written across John's face turned into a sneer, and it was at that moment Dean could feel the piercing cold barrel of the gun press against his neck.

"I hate you."

He woke up just before it went off.

* * *

He laid there for a moment with his eyes closed, his heart beating a mile a minute as he tried desperately to calm his breathing. Although he couldn't hear it, John still could, and with the way his father had been acting lately, any sign of weakness was a surefire way to set him off.

The moment he felt a hand grip him by the hair and pull him straight off the bed, he knew it was too late. His father was pissed, and when he opened his eyes to see John's staring daggers back at him, he bit his lip, trying to keep cool.

"Do you know what time it is? We were supposed to have left two hours ago!" John screamed in the younger hunter's face, Dean's short hair still magically wrapped around his calloused fingers. "Get up and get dressed. You've got some running to do." With that, he shoved a pair of sneakers into Dean's chest, hard enough to knock some air out of the twenty-two year old's lungs. With a look that could quite possibly kill, he grabbed the keys to the Impala and slammed the motel room door, leaving Dean breathless in the dark.

The younger Winchester quickly did as he was told, slipping on the shoes he was given as fast he could. Casting a glance at the standard red-numbered motel room clock that sat on the nightstand, he took note that it was only 5:30 in the morning, meaning he'd only managed to get a little less than three hours of rest.

Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, Dean slipped on one of his younger brother's hoodies that had been left behind in his departure and slung his bag of belongings over his weary shoulders.

This was going to be another long day. He just knew it.

**A/N: I know it took me almost a year to upload another chap, but I'm going to try and continue with it. Forgive the rustiness and shortness as well. ;)**


	3. Dazed and Confused

**The Illusionist**

**Chapter 2 : Dazed and Confused**

Dean was nine when it happened.

One day, his father had left for a hunt that the older man had told him would only take a few days, possibly a week at most. It was around the fifth day that John was gone that Dean started feeling sick. By the eighth day, his head was pounding so furiously that he passed out from the pain. The last thing he heard was a five-year-old Sammy screaming his name.

He woke up three days later to see John's angry but worried face staring at him from the chair seated next to his hospital bed. It had taken the nine-year-old a moment to understand where he was, and he immediately started apologizing to his father, only to realize that he couldn't hear himself speaking. It was then that he noticed he couldn't hear any of the hospital's normal sounds. No phones endlessly ringing, or doctors being paged. No annoying beeps coming from the machine that was monitoring his heart.

Nothing.

He heard absolutely _nothing_.

Panic had soon settled in as tears filled his green eyes, he looking to his father for an explanation, but John had just stared at the boy, a defeated look in the man's eyes.

And then Sammy ran in, making it all the worse...

"_Dean! You're awake!" Sammy shouted and flung himself up onto the hospital bed and straight onto Dean's lap, wrapping his little arms tightly around his older brother's neck and nearly knocking the nine-year-old onto his back, completely catching Dean off guard. _

_The older boy could feel the tremors wracking his little brother's thin body as the shoulder of his hospital gown grew wet with Sammy's tears. Dean tried his best to soothe the child, tried his best to be strong, but his strength was waning, the thought of never hearing Sammy's voice again bringing tears to his eyes once more. _

_He was so afraid to speak, but he forced himself to, doing his best to mumble out a "It'll be okay, Sammy." The fact that he couldn't hear his brother's response hurt him even more. He could only feel the vibration of Sammy's words because the younger of the two's mouth was pressed into his shoulder. He couldn't hear the tiny voice murmur, "I love you, Dean."_

It was later explained to Dean by a sympathetic doctor that he'd contracted meningitis, and that even though he was now deaf, he was lucky to be alive. But Dean didn't give a shit about that.

He was _deaf_.

He'd no longer be able to tell if Sammy was calling out for him in the middle of the night, no longer be able to give his father a report when the older man called to check up on them. He couldn't even use a damn phone anymore!

It had taken him a long time to adjust to it, and he knew if it weren't for his little brother, he probably would've lost it.

_Sammy..._

_

* * *

_The Impala rolled up next to him, pushing his memories away for another time. John flung the passenger door open, not even shooting the twenty-two year old so much as a glance. Dean was relieved yet apprehensive. His father had let him run for a good two hours in forty-five degree weather before coming for him, meaning the older man was not in a good mood.

The younger of the two slid in the car, shutting the door as softly as possible. John hated it when doors were slammed, especially those on the Impala.

Dean still had the scar from the last time to prove it.

"Where are we headed?" he asked aloud, immediately noting the slight cringe of his father's brow. John had never learned to sign, so speaking or writing was the only way Dean could communicate with the man. And writing was always out of the question when John was driving. But Dean knew his father hated it when he spoke, something about the sound of his voice always angering the oldest Winchester.

He was staring at John's lips, waiting for an answer, but instead the man threw some papers on his lap, choosing to remain silent.

Dean wiped the cold sweat from his brow with his sleeve, attempting to focus on the task at hand even though he was freezing. He skimmed through the various news headlines, they all having one thing in common.

"Someone's killing infants? You think it might be a...shtriga?" he hesitated on the last word, almost afraid to even speak it. It wasn't too long after their own incident involving one that Dean had lost his hearing, leaving him to believe for the longest time that it was his punishment for almost getting Sam killed.

John's jaw clenched and unclenched, anger clearly written across his face. Without warning, he swerved the Impala sharply to the left, then back to the right, the force sending Dean's head straight into the passenger side window.

The twenty-two year old let out a muted cry of pain, immediately biting his lip afterward in attempt to keep himself quiet. He closed his eyes, thankful that he couldn't feel any blood running down the side of his face, only to feel John's death grip on his chin, forcing him to turn his head and open his eyes again.

"Did you even read these?" John screamed in his face, letting go of his jaw only to pick up the scattered papers and throw them at his son, still somehow managing to drive all the while.

"Yes, sir," Dean replied quickly, his weary eyes searching his father's face, the younger man still not quite understanding what he'd done wrong.

"Then why do you think it's a shtriga? Huh? Because the few that I've hunted have never gone after infants!" John yelled back, the veins in his forehead beginning to show.

"Because..."

"Because what, Dean? Because what? Did you suddenly develop a brain now that Sam's gone?" the older man spat, his angry eyes switching back and forth between his son and the road.

Shock slapped Dean in the face, hurt encasing itself in his green orbs.

"Because that's what the ancient Roman version fed off of," he answered, his voice barely above a whisper. The twenty-two year old let his gaze drift to the window, feeling his heart sink as the car came to an abrupt halt on the shoulder of the road. He could feel the vibration of the driver's door slamming, his eyes closing briefly in reflex. He managed to take in a deep breath before the passenger side door was thrown open.

He wanted to fight the older man off, but he did nothing as John violently removed him from the vehicle. The older Winchester's white-knuckled hands tightly gripped his collar and threw him up against the Impala.

Hard.

"You think you know everything? Think you can take Sam's place?" John roared, slamming Dean into the Chevy again. The older man ignored the silent "no" that befell his son's wavering lips, landing a punch to the side of his head instead. Rage filled John's body as he saw the pain he couldn't show staring back at him in his son's tear-filled eyes.

Dean was trying so hard not to let them fall, but one slipped down his cheek anyway, resulting in a punch right across the face. He knew John was still yelling at him, but he could no longer look at his father. He didn't want to see how much the man hated him.

He could feel the back of John's hand make contact with his mouth, and the blood that followed soon after. But he just let his head hang, eyes staring down at the cold pavement.

He was going to wait it out, knowing his father's anger would pass, just like the storm clouds that hovered above.

**A/N: Many thanks to those of you who are still reading and reviewing. Real life gets in the way a bit sometimes, but I'm still moving forward with this story. I hope you all enjoy it, and remember, nothing is what it seems sometimes. ;) And I apologize once again for the shortness. I'm hoping the next chap will be longer.**


	4. Communication Breakdown

**The Illusionist**

**Chapter 3 : Communication Breakdown**

Dean was tired, dead tired; but that didn't stop him from trying to connect the dots on their next case all the way to their intended destination. John had made sure that what would be a twelve hour drive for a normal person was only eight for them. They'd made it to Ohio by two in the afternoon, Dean keeping his mouth completely shut until they arrived in town, though he was careful not to utter another word about it being a shtriga.

_'It's a plain city alright,'_ Dean couldn't help but think as they passed the WELCOME TO PLAIN CITY, OH sign that greeted them as they hit Main Street. They'd passed by row after row of snow-dusted and long already harvested corn fields on their way in, and he could tell that this would be one of those towns where a newly built fast-food restaurant would more than likely be the main attraction.

He shook off his dismay, attempting to focus his mind once again on the task at hand.

Five infants had been murdered in the two months, presumed murdered anyway. It was the same thing every time. The parents would put the child down for the night, then wake up to its screams, only to find a bloody yet childless crib.

The police had no leads; '_probably 'cause there's only three or four of 'em and their hardest decision of the day is who's going to buy the donuts and coffee_,' Dean couldn't help but think, weary eyes drifting back down to the crumpled news articles.

He looked up as he felt the car coming to a stop, a dingy looking motel standing before them with a neon vacancy sign that looked like it was on its last leg flashing miserably in the office window.

"Stay here. I'll be right back."

His gaze immediately shot to John's lips, catching the last part of what the man said. The older Winchester exited the car without another word, disappearing through the office door. John hadn't even looked at him, but as Dean glanced at himself in the side-view mirror, he could understand why. His bottom lip had a nice little split in it, and his right eye was surrounded by a large purple bruise. And then there was the bluish one on the side of his head from the car window. He looked like shit, but he'd live.

Letting out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, Dean exited the car, the cold blast of air that hit him nearly knocking him back inside. He thought it'd been chilly down in Tulsa, but it was easily twenty degrees colder where he was at now. Hurriedly, he grabbed their bags out of the back, inwardly thankful that his father had finally come out of the office.

Dean stared at the man, waiting for his next set of orders, but John stayed quiet instead, grabbing a bag of his own and heading for their motel room. The twenty-two year old followed silently behind, immediately turning the heat on full blast as soon as he made it inside. He was freezing and praying, praying that the place had hot water. He was so tired...

"Take a damn shower. You stink," John griped, waving his hand in front of his son's face to get his attention. He withheld smacking him. He knew he'd done enough damage for one day.

Dean jumped at the sudden movement, his reflexes automatically kicking in. Once his father's words settled in, he nodded and immediately made his way to the bathroom.

It was clean enough, and had the usual supply of cheap motel accommodations. Three clean bleached towels hung on a rack near the large mirror, which was highlighted by the you-can-see-every-little-flaw-regardless-of-how-good-you-look florescent lighting. He stared at himself for a minute, disliking pretty much everything he saw.

The bruises looked even worse, and the dark rings he had underneath his eyes didn't help matters much either. He tried to ignore the fact that his skin was pulled a little tighter over his bones, his cheeks looking a little more hallow with each passing day. Food hadn't exactly been on his mind too much as of late...

Painstakingly, Dean slipped out of his clothes, his overly sore muscles screaming for some sort of relief as he turned the shower on. He closed his eyes, thankful that as grungy as the place looked, the shower actually worked fairly well. The hot water rained down upon him, alleviating some of the physical pain he was feeling, but it did nothing for the ache in his chest. It didn't take long for the lump to form in his throat, tears beginning to burn in the back of his eyes.

He just missed Sam so damn much...

_'Stop it! You are not a girl, so stop acting like one!,' _he told himself, successfully blinking back the tears and forcing the knot back down. He'd just about calmed himself when the shower curtain was violently pulled open, John staring angrily at him from the other side.

"You gonna stay in here all day?" the older man shouted, brow furrowed in disdain.

Dean stared back at him wide-eyed for a moment, his heart thumping a mile a minute.

"Quit using up all the damned hot water, Dean! You think you're the only one who needs to use it?" his father yelled again, the twenty-two year old swearing he saw a look of disgust cross the man's face.

"No, sir. Sorry, sir," he replied quickly, his hands already shutting the water off before his brain could even process the thought. He felt the cold wind from the curtain being jerked shut, causing an involuntary shiver to wrack his body, goosebumps blossoming across his pale flesh.

The younger of the two hunters quickly dressed, ignoring the fact that he had to tighten his belt again for the second time in less than two weeks. He threw on an old AC/DC shirt that was starting to look a few sizes too big, and Sam's leftover hoodie. It needed to be washed, but he didn't really care at the moment. He needed Sam, and the piece of clothing was as close to him as he was going to get.

He exited the bathroom, and headed straight for the small wooden table that was situated near the two beds. His father had the news articles spread out across it, various notes and theories already scribbled on them.

Dean started to go through them again, his attention landing on two names in particular John had written down and circled.

_'Sam and Mary? But why would he...Oh, no...He thinks this might be the thing that got Mom? But that doesn't make any sense...None of the mothers have been killed, and none of the houses have been set on fire. He can't be thinking clearly...'_

Dean looked up, making sure that he was still alone, and that John was still in the shower. His thumb shot to his lips, his teeth nervously tugging at the nail. Taking a deep breath, he got up and went over to his father's unpacked bag, hurriedly sifting through it.

_'It's got to be here somewhere,' _he told himself, being careful not to mess up the man's belongings. John could always tell when something was out of place, especially if he left it in a specific position or a certain way.

Having no luck with the bag, Dean's eyes landed on his father's jacket that was laid out on one of the twin beds. Glancing back at the bathroom door that still had a bit of steam coming out from underneath it, he went over to the jacket, finding what he was looking for in the inside pocket.

He pulled the journal out cautiously, taking great care as to make sure nothing else was disturbed. With trembling hands, he flipped through the worn-out pages to near the beginning. Maybe there was something his father hadn't told them about that night, something he was keeping from them...

_December 10, 1983_

_I still can't sleep. It's been five weeks, but it feels like it was just last night. I still see her face, staring at me with that look in her eyes. So much damn pain...God I miss her...I don't know how I'm going to do this. The boys deserve better. Dean still hasn't said a word, and Sammy, he just stares at me and it's like he just knows. Not even eight months old, but he knows his mom is gone. Knows she's never coming back..._

Whatever train of thought Dean was on before he opened the journal was long gone, all too vivid memories of that night running through his mind. His trip back to memory lane was cut short though as he felt a slight rush of wind behind him, meaning John either had or was about to catch him with his journal. Dean hurriedly shoved the item back into his father's coat, and turned around, expecting the older Winchester to be standing there staring at him with a deadly look on his face. Instead, he was met with a half open door, and John's back to him; the man gathering his things from the bathroom.

Dean sighed and went back over to the table and sat down. He could feel a headache coming on, and probably a bad one at that. He couldn't even remember the last time he ate...

_'I've got a job to do. I can't let him down now. He needs me here...'_

He started rereading the articles, hoping he'd missed something.

* * *

Dean had gotten a total of ten hours sleep in the five days that they'd been there so far, and his lack of rest didn't look like it was going to let up anytime soon. Another child had gone missing on the third night they were there, and that alone had sent John into a frenzy.

The police had no leads nor suspects, and the parents of the missing infants were so distraught that the attempted interviews John had set up went nowhere. The older Winchester was growing more frustrated and irritated with each passing day, his temper taking a turn for the worse.

Dean was trying his hardest to the best that he could, but it seemed as though everything he did just set his father off even more.

And unfortunately, he had the bruises to prove it.

It was almost four o'clock in the morning, and Dean was still up, going through the police reports John had managed to get from the receptionist at the police station. He'd read over them numerous times, but still couldn't find a lead.

When his vision started to blur, he stood, attempting to shake off the exhaustion that had become his constant companion. He glanced over at John, passed out on one of the twin beds, a look of anger on the man's face even in sleep.

Shaking off the weariness that was starting to sink into his bones, Dean turned on the small coffee maker, hoping that a jolt of caffeine might jump start his tired brain. He sighed and sat back down at the small table, a picture in the report he'd been reading catching his eye.

_'She looks familiar...'_ he thought, staring at the woman in the background of the photo. The mother was all smiles, holding her child in her arms, beaming brightly; but the female behind her looked none too pleased, an irritated expression crossing her visage. _'Where have I seen her before?'_

He quickly flipped to the next report, checking for the child's picture. Sure enough, she was also in that photo, only this time, she was holding the infant herself. He went through the rest of the photographs, and found the same woman in all but one of them.

Dean could feel his heart racing, a connection between all the families finally coming to light. Before he knew what he was doing, his legs had already taken him over to John, his hands shaking the man awake.

"Dad! Dad! I found something!" he shouted a little too loudly, instantly rousing the older man from his sleep, and earning a scowl as well.

"This had better be good, Dean, because I swear if this is more bullshit...̶"

"I think all the disappearances have something to do with her. Look," the twenty-two year old stated, nearly shoving the pictures in John's face. "I think she might be the baby-sitter or the nanny. It would make sense. She could be a witch or a..." He cut himself off, remembering the last time he'd brought up the shtriga.

John stared at the pictures for a moment, angry at the fact that he didn't catch this himself.

"Did you get a name, by chance?" the older Winchester asked, his brow still furrowed.

The light in Dean's eyes slowly faded; the tiny, hopeful smile he'd been wearing vanishing into thin air.

"No, sir. I'll check right now," the younger of the two stated, his gaze dropping to the floor as he made his way back over to the reports. He'd fucked up again, and the look on John's face made that all too apparent.

He quickly scanned over the pages, the mystery woman's contact info nowhere to be found.

"It-It doesn't say," Dean said, his voice barely audible.

The next thing he knew, John's hand was on his jaw, forcing his head in his father's direction.

"The next time you wake me up out of a dead sleep, you'd better have something useful to tell me. Do you understand?" John enunciated the last few words, making Dean feel all the more stupid.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir," Dean automatically answered, the four words seeming to be the only ones he had in his vocabulary as of late. He was trying desperately to ignore the pain that was coursing through his jaw, all the while knowing there would more than likely be bruises there before he knew it. He couldn't help but tell himself that he deserved it.

He knew better.

"Sorry, huh? Why don't you show me how sorry you are?" John continued on, hand still firmly gripping Dean's face as he pulled him out of the chair and forced him to the floor. "One hundred push-ups. For every one you can't do, is a mile you'll be running. Got it?"

Dean swallowed hard and nodded, pushing the lump back down in his throat. He was _not_ going to cry. John was just trying to discipline him. He'd made a mistake, and that was that.

And as a Winchester, he knew you always had to pay the consequences, whether you were guilty or not.

* * *

**A/N-Thank you everyone for your lovely reviews. They are greatly appreciated! :) And just to clarify, Dean is still four years older than Sam. And due to canon discrepancies, I decided to leave their ages at 22 and 18, even though in the Pilot episode they were 26 and 22, meaning Sam would have been 19 when he went off to college and Dean, 23. I'm still a bit rusty, IMO, so if there's anything that's off just let me know. Happy Thanksgiving to all of you who celebrate it, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter! :)**


	5. Whipping Boy

**The Illusionist**

**Chapter 4 : Whipping Boy**

He'd had trouble keeping his eyes open the minute John dropped him off at the library. The older Winchester had told Dean he was going to go "find a way to make money since you can't," and the twenty-two year old had just accepted the man's words with a nod and went inside the tiny single-floor building, hoping there was at least one computer inside with an internet connection.

After locating one with the help of a nosy librarian, he went to work, hoping he'd be able to stay awake long enough to get the information that he needed. He decided to try and look up baby-sitting services in the area, but kept coming up with nothing. As a last resort, he did a general search of the city, his eyes widening at the results.

**ANOTHER INFANT GONE MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD**

He'd seen the headline plenty of times in the last week, but the thing that made his heart pound was the fact that it was dated for December 5, 1972, almost thirty years to the exact date the current ones had started taking place.

All in all, seven children had been taken, and not one of them had ever been found. No bodies, no remains; just bloodied, empty cribs left in their wake.

Dean was so engrossed in what he was reading that he didn't even see the shadow that fell upon the computer screen until he felt the said shadow's hand on his shoulder. He jerked away, angry that he let himself be caught off guard once again. He stared up at the intruder of his personal space, the irritated expression easing off his visage when he realized the woman he was now staring at was the librarian who had helped him earlier.

"I'm sorry, dear, but someone else needs to use it now," she informed him, a polite smile showcasing the lines around her lips.

The twenty-two year old nodded in response, quickly closing the page he was on, but it seemed as though the older woman had already seen what he'd been looking at.

"Such a shame," she said, shaking her head as Dean rose to his feet, preparing to leave. He stopped when he saw her lips moving and the expression on her face change from fake courtesy to sadness. "It happened so long ago, and now it's happening again. Horrible, horrible thing. They say history repeats itself, but something like this? Just awful...Say, are you here reporting on it as well?" She was staring at him curiously now, a graying eyebrow raised in interest.

He stumbled for an answer, finally deciding on another nod and a quick grin. The concept of actually speaking to someone outside of his family bothered him to no end; he hated people knowing he was deaf, but his speech pattern had changed since he was younger, and the moment he'd begin to talk was a dead giveaway.

"Well, good luck. Who knows, maybe you'll help catch the person responsible," she said, a glimmer of sadness still lingering in her eyes, which Dean silently noted were two different colors.

He offered her a polite smile, and made his way out of the small building, the almost-winter wind nearly knocking him over as he stepped outside. He shivered, his sore legs not wanting to hold him up any longer. John had made him run ten miles that morning, and he was more than feeling the after effects now that he wasn't sitting down.

His father was supposed to come pick him up, but Dean realized after about half an hour of waiting in freezing temperatures that the man wasn't coming.

_Thank God this is a small town, _he thought as he began his walk back to the motel, snow flurries starting to whirl around him. He secured the backpack on his shoulders before stuffing his hands into the pockets of his father's now too-large leather jacket, pulling it tighter against his thin frame.

He was within a block of the motel when his phone buzzed in his pocket, the vibration alerting him to its presence. Dean fished it out of his pants pocket and flipped it open, a new text awaiting him.

**Where are you**

He didn't even need to see the sender's number to know that it was from his father. He promptly sent back a response.

**Almost back at the motel**

The twenty-two year old waited a few minutes before he flipped his phone shut, knowing that he'd somehow managed to piss John off yet again with the five words he'd responded with. He sighed, watching his breath slowly spiral away in front of him, dissolving into nothingness.

The snow was starting to come down a bit harder as he reached the motel parking lot, the sky's color changing from light gray to a darker shade as more clouds rolled in. He was almost to the room door when he saw the Impala pull up in the space in front of their room. He paused, watching as John exited the car.

The smell of alcohol hit Dean almost immediately, and the fact that his father had a little trouble keeping his balance worried the younger Winchester. Normally, John would at least wait until they finished the case they were working on before he indulged a bit, and they still had a ways to go before that happened. At least, at the rate things were going.

"Are you okay?" Dean asked, eyes carefully scrutinizing the man that was now pushing past him and into the comfort of the warm room. John didn't look as though he'd been fighting, but sometimes it was hard as hell to tell.

When he didn't receive a response from his father, he tried again.

"Dad, are you okay?" He gently put his hand on his father's shoulder only to have it shrugged off. John turned around to face the younger Winchester, his eyes bloodshot and angry. He looked like a ticking time bomb, ready to go off at any second.

"Let me guess, still couldn't find anything useful, could you?" The firestorm of words was starting to pour from the man's mouth, and Dean knew there was no way to stop it, nowhere to take cover. "What'd you do while you were there? Take a nap?" He looked Dean up and down, and took a step closer. "Did you suddenly forget how to talk?" he shouted, taking another step forward, now mere inches from his son's face.

Dean just stared at him for a moment, wondering which would hurt worse; giving the man a proper response, or none at all. Taking a deep breath, he went with the former.

"No, sir. I did—"

"You are _nothing_ like him," John suddenly spit out, cutting Dean off before the twenty-two year could get in another word. Before the younger Winchester knew it, he was being slammed against the nearest wall, John holding him by the collar. "He may not have liked what we did, but by God he was a hell of a lot better at it than you! At least he was intelligent and could figure things out! Unlike you, you sorry excuse for a son!"

"I'm sorry, sir." He could feel the tears trying to form, but he blinked them back. Now was not the time nor place. Hell, there never was a time or place.

"Sorry doesn't cut it, Dean! There are innocent children out there dying! We're supposed to be the ones protecting them! Don't you understand that?" John shouted, his face growing redder the louder his voice got.

All Dean could do was stare at the older man. He knew his father had plenty reason to be mad. John was right. He was always right. At least, Dean thought so.

"Don't make me say it again." Even though Dean couldn't hear the threatening tone in his father's voice, he could see it written all over the older man's face.

"Yes, sir. I understand," the younger Winchester finally replied, green eyes still slightly glazed. He was thankful when John finally let him go, and stalked over to the bed, albeit sure to pass out. Dean didn't move until the older man was still.

He set up shop at the small table, laying all the articles out that he'd printed from the library. Giving the clock a glance and seeing that it was only five in the afternoon, he had hope that he might actually get some type of rest. More than two hours anyway.

* * *

_Dean slammed the book closed, the boy so frustrated he could cry._

"_Hey, Dean!" Sammy shouted as he entered the small bedroom they were sharing, a big grin across his face. The five year old was still at the point where he felt the louder he spoke, the easier it would be for Dean to hear him. When Dean didn't acknowledge his entrance, the younger boy tried again, only this time jumping up onto the bed and right into his older brother's face. "Hey, Dean!" he yelled even louder._

_Dean stared at him for a moment, wanting to laugh and cry all the same. He wanted so badly to hear that little voice (even though it could be highly annoying at times), but instead, all he was greeted with was silence and a toothy-grinning little brother._

"_What's this?" Sammy asked, holding up the book Dean had wanted to smash into the wall. "ASL? What's that stand for?"_

_Dean stared at him for a long moment, still trying to get used to the act of reading lips. It wasn't as easy as the doctor told him it would be._

"_Is this your sign language book, Dean?" the little brunette questioned the older boy, attempting to enunciate each word perfectly so that Dean could understand him._

_The nine-year old gave him a curt nod, the frustration he was feeling earlier coming back around, causing his brow to furrow slightly._

"_Coool, you can teach me how to sign, and it'll be like our own secret language!" Sammy chirped happily, hazel eyes wide with excitement. "Teach me how to say brother!" the five-year-old commanded, shoving the book back into Dean's reluctant hands._

"_Not now, Sammy," the barely audible words passed through the older boy's lips as he tossed the book at the foot of his bed. His gaze drifted downward, the knot in his throat not wanting to go away. _

_The younger boy stared at him for a minute before picking the book back up and flipping through the pages. He'd find out how to sign the word brother even if it took him all day._

_A few minutes later, Dean could feel Sammy's hands on his chin, gently lifting his head up. The younger boy glanced down at the book before looking back up at Dean, the same toothy grin plastered across his face._

"_Brother," the youngest Winchester stated, moving his hand up to his forehead and acting as though he was tugging on a baseball cap. He then proceeded to bring both hands together, making sure that only his index fingers were pointed forward and side by side. "You're my brother, Dean! Get it?" _

_The older boy was trying so desperately to hold back the tears that were threatening to stain his cheeks. He wanted to be mad, mad that his little brother could do something that his mind refused to process. He wanted to scream and shout and tell whoever was listening that it wasn't fucking fair. But he knew life wasn't fair. At least, not in their family._

"_Dean, are you okay?" the five-year-old queried as he watched his brother's lips tremble, and his eyes water over. _

_The older boy shook his head, and buried his face in his hands, tears spilling uncontrollably from his eyes. His whole body was shaking, and as hard as he tried, he couldn't stop. He knew he should be stronger, and he sure as hell shouldn't be breaking down in front of his little brother, but his body was betraying him yet again._

_After some struggling, Sammy managed to pry Dean's hands away from his face, the younger boy staring right into the bright green bloodshot eyes that showcased an unbearable sadness._

"_Don't cry, Dean. It'll be okay," he reassured, the beginnings of his signature puppy dog face starting to cross his young visage._

_The nine-year-old shook his head furiously, a few stray tears trickling down his cheeks._

"_That's easy for you to say, Sammy..." his voice trailed off, it still shaking a bit._

"_I'll help you. We can learn together," the younger boy stated brightly, not letting himself be deterred. _

_After a few minutes of silence, Dean slowly nodded. _

"_Okay, fine, Sammy. But I'm not giving you a break on the bigger words," he said, the tiniest hint of a smile bringing up the corner of his lip._

"_Hey, I can handle it!" Sammy declared, a pout replacing the puppy dog eyes._

"_If you say so..."_

Dean's head snapped up, the dream memory fading into the depths of his mind. His gaze immediately shot to the bed where his father was still passed out, and then to the clock on the nightstand. It's red numbers stated that it was one in the morning, meaning he'd been out for close to four hours. And the crick in his neck only clarified that for him.

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, the empty bed mocking him from out the corner of his eye. He'd probably only slept in the thing twice since they'd been there, and as flat as it was, it still looked tempting.

_You've got a job to do, you can sleep after the case is solved, _he told himself, his brow furrowing the tiniest bit when he realized it sounded like something his father might say.

He stifled down a yawn, and attempted to blink the drowsiness out of his vision.

He was going to find the asshole that was taking those children, and when he did, he'd be the thing's worst nightmare.

**A/N : Thank you all so much for the positive reviews! I appreciate them very, very much; and I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. :)**


	6. When You're Gone

**The Illusionist **

**Chapter 5 : When You're Gone**

It was almost six in the morning before he saw it.

He'd been going through the articles he'd gotten from the library, and it was almost like going through the original ones he'd went through before. There wasn't much new information, and he was about to take a break when he realized the last page he'd read over was stuck to another. He wasn't expecting much, but as he pulled them apart, a familiar face caught his eye.

She might have been thirty years younger in the picture, but he was positive that it was the nosy librarian that had spoken to him the previous day. His eyes widened as he read the caption under her picture.

**Nadine Shaw, the mother of the latest missing infant, begs, "Please bring my baby home."**

The further he read down the article, the faster his heart thumped in his chest.

"_Nadine Shaw, the mother of the latest victim claims she saw the person, or rather 'thing' that took her son. Although details are shady at best, and police have yet to confirm or deny the grieving mother's claims. _

_'It's just a terrible thing that's happened,' family friend and nanny, Delilah Sharp tells us. 'I just can't believe what's happened. The whole family's in a state of shock right now.'"_

Dean nearly dropped the mug of cold coffee he was holding in his hands, the hairs standing up full force on the back of his neck. He carefully set the cup down, taking in all the information he'd just read.

This was sounding more and more like what he originally thought it was.

A shtriga, or a strix, rather, was more than likely the culprit.

_Maybe that's why Dad's been acting like he has. He's still mad..._

Either way, Dean knew he had to go back to the library and talk to Ms. Shaw. He glanced back at the clock, seeing that he still had three hours to go before it opened.

_Coffee and breakfast first. He's gonna need it,_ he thought as he looked back over at his father. The man had been out cold for awhile, and would more than likely have a hangover by the time he woke up.

Dean got up from the table only to almost fall over with all due thanks to legs that had fallen asleep on him. He stood there for a moment, ignoring the dizziness that also contributed to his near mishap.

He took a deep breath, and counted to ten, the pins and needles feeling gradually making its way up his tired limbs. The twenty-two year old grabbed his jacket and slipped out the door, careful to leave a note on the nightstand just in case John woke up while he was gone.

Snow flurries whizzed around him as he made his way down the street and to the small diner that sat on the corner. He hurried in, thankful for the warmth he found inside.

The smell of coffee and and bacon hit his senses all at once; the scent of the latter making him feel nauseous instead of hungry like it used to. He clenched his jaw, trying desperately to ignore the sick feeling.

To avoid confusion, he wrote down his order and handed it to the waitress behind the counter, plastering on the most charming smile he could, and hoping she wouldn't mistake it for a robbery note. He watched as she uninterestedly read the order, leaving him inwardly thankful that she wasn't as dumb as she looked.

"Alright, three coffees and half a dozen donuts. That'll be $7.83," she said, smacking gum all the while. When Dean didn't respond, she waved her cheaply manicured hand in front of his face. "Hey, sweet cheeks, you gonna pay or what?"

He stared at her for a long moment, then nodded, face reddening in embarrassment as he reached for his wallet. He handed over a ten dollar bill, took the coffee and donuts, and headed for the door. He felt too stupid to stick around for the change.

His gaze was locked on the third cup the whole way back to the motel.

It hadn't happened very often, but sometimes he'd forget, if only for a few minutes that Sam wasn't there anymore. He'd go and order something somewhere, and get enough for three people, only to remember that there was just two now.

Blinking back the involuntary tears that the biting-cold wind brought to his eyes, he tossed the extra cup into the nearest trash container before unlocking the motel door, a dreary-eyed John staring at him from the bed.

"Breakfast," Dean stated simply, setting the food and drink on the nightstand. He sifted through his duffel and pulled out a bottle of aspirin, setting it down next to the coffee. "I need to go back to the library today," he added, taking off his coat and sitting on his designated bed.

"And why's that?" John asked gruffly, swallowing down a few of the pills with some coffee.

"I was going through the articles I got yesterday, and one of the women that her child taken before-"

"What are you talking about, Dean?" the older man cut him off, brow furrowed in confusion. "Before?"

The twenty-two year hesitated momentarily, but reasoned that maybe his father would actually be willing to listen to him today.

"It turns out, that this exact same thing happened back in 1972, almost to the exact same day," he informed the older man as he got up and retrieved the papers from the nearby table. "I met this woman yesterday. She's the librarian," he added, handing the article over to John. "I think she knows something."

"And what gave you that impression?" the older Winchester asked, growing irritated when his son didn't respond. He looked up from the paper, realizing that it was covering his mouth, only adding to his frustration. "What made you think that?" he spat out, anger racing across his visage like a brush fire. He saw Dean visibly flinch, the action only making him angrier.

"She saw what I was looking at; told me how awful it was. She didn't even act like it happened to her though..."

"You let her sneak up on you like that?" John almost looked offended as he spoke, his hand clenching at the thin piece of paper that was currently in it.

"It-It was an accident. I-I didn't mean to," Dean stuttered in response, fear slowly creeping across his thin face. "I'm sorry, sir."

"You'd think with you being deaf that your other senses would make up for it. Apparently not," he snapped, rising to his feet. "Be ready in 10. We're going to see this woman, and you'd better not fuck up again. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," the younger Winchester replied, wearily watching the older man make his way to the bathroom and slamming the door behind him. He sighed and reached for his coffee with shaking hands. He drank almost half the cup in one gulp, knowing he'd need the jolt if he was going to make it through another day. His gaze fell on the untouched box of donuts.

_Just one,_ he told himself as he reached for the container, knowing it had been quite some time since he'd put anything into his stomach. He didn't realize how hungry he was, and was on doughnut number three by the time John had made it out of the bathroom.

The older Winchester's brow furrowed as he made his way back over to the bed, grabbing the box out of his son's hands. Dean immediately stilled, already feeling guilty though he'd done nothing wrong.

"What are you? A fuckin' pig?" John shouted, tossing the half-empty box back on the nightstand. "You keep eatin' like that, and you'll be too damn big to chase anything! You want that?"

The younger of the two shook his head, his heart immediately sinking to the lowest depths of his chest. "No, sir," he choked out, swallowing the last bit of food he had in his mouth, and wiping his lips with the back of his sleeve.

"Come on, let's get going," John ordered, pulling on his coat as he headed for the door. "Come on, dammit! We don't have all day!" he shouted upon seeing Dean not moving fast enough for his liking.

The twenty-two year old hurriedly pulled on his jacket without a word, and followed the older man out of the room, the cold air numbing him before he even made it to the car.

* * *

No words were exchanged between the two during the short drive to the library. Dean just stared out the window at the gunmetal-colored sky, more flurries continuing to fall from it. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd actually seen the sun.

_The sun probably never stops shining in California..._

Within a few minutes, the single-story building came into view, looking as dull as it did the day before. Dean glanced around the parking lot, taking note that there was only one other car there.

John parked near the front doors, and got out; Dean immediately following.

"They don't open for another half hour," the twenty-two year old said, casually peering through the doors.

"I can read, Dean," John stated flatly, irritation written plainly across his face. The older man knocked loudly on the door, knowing the woman would come sooner or later.

Within a few minutes, she appeared, looking annoyed at the early visitors. Her expression soon changed as she saw Dean, recognition and surprise easing across her visage. Cautiously, she cracked open the door.

"May I help you?" she asked, an eyebrow raised in confusion.

"Nadine Shaw?" John asked, waiting for conformation before he pulled out his fake detective badge.

"Yes?" she questioned again, her gaze drifting to Dean who was standing behind the elder Winchester, an unsure smile gracing his lips.

"I'm Detective Page, this is Detective Plant," he added, nodding towards Dean. "We've got a few questions concerning the missing infants case. May we have a moment of your time?"

She stared at him curiously for a moment before opening the door all the way. "I hope you don't mind me saying, but you don't look like much of a detective, Mr. Page, or your partner for that matter," she said, throwing a glance at Dean again as she led them down the main hall.

"Well, we were called in from Columbus to help out, and since the matter was urgent, dress code wasn't exactly of the essence," John replied, already disliking the woman.

"Was your partner in here yesterday to spy on me?" she asked suddenly, turning around to face the two men, Dean completely clueless as to what was going on since her back had been turned to him the entire time she was speaking.

"My partner was in here yesterday collecting information on the case. Our equipment was down, and the station's computers weren't working either. This was the only place left that had a working internet connection," the older Winchester stated coolly, the confident smile he wore never leaving his lips.

"I see," Nadine replied, face reddening a bit in embarrassment. "Forgive me for my outburst, but in all honesty, I don't quite understand what this is about. I don't know any of the families-"

"Ma'am, you can cut the crap," John continued on, ignoring the offended look on her face. "Your son went missing thirty years ago, and was never found. We have reason to believe that these two instances are in fact related, and that whoever was responsible for the crime then is responsible for what's going on now."

The woman's eyes instantly glazed over, memories of that time beginning to surface.

"Now, is there anything—and I do mean anything—that you can tell us about that night? Did you see someone?" the older man inquired, staring intently at the now taken aback librarian.

"Or something?" Dean chimed in, earning a glare from his father, and a horrified look from the woman.

She was silent for a moment before she finally answered, tears running down her cheeks.

"I'd only put him to bed about half an hour before it happened," she said, pausing for a moment to wipe her eyes. "I was almost asleep when he started to cry. But it wasn't his usual restless cry, he sounded scared, so scared...I got up and ran in there, and there was this...this thing just standing there, staring at him. I was so afraid I couldn't move, and before I knew what was happening, it picked him up by it's-it's _beak_. It flew out the window, and I just stood there...I just...froze."

"Ma'am?" Dean asked softly. He hated speaking to other people, but in this instance, he felt he had to. Embarrassed at the way he sounded or not, they had a job to get done. "Can you tell us anything about the baby-sitter you had at the time? Delilah Sharp?"

"Um, she was very good with Daniel," she stopped for a moment, almost breaking down into tears once more. "She couldn't have any children of her own, but she loved them. After...after he was taken, I believe she moved away. I'm not sure where though," she added, sniffling.

"Thank you, Ms. Shaw. You've been a great help with this investigation. We appreciate your time," John said, sounding exactly like a cop out of a TV show.

"I'm not crazy, you know," the woman informed him, her eyes glazing over again.

"Ma'am, I never said—"

"You don't have to _say _anything. I know what you're thinking, Mr. Page. Look, I put this behind me years ago, but even now, I remember what I saw. I know it wasn't a person that took my son."

"Whatever it is, we'll catch it," Dean told her, offering the most comforting smile that he could.

She stared at him for a long moment before nodding. "Thank you."

As soon as they made it out the door, the younger Winchester felt John's hand connect with the back of his head.

"Whatever _it_ is? What the hell is wrong with you?" the older man snapped, brow deeply furrowed.

"I was only trying to reassure her," Dean replied, gently rubbing the spot where his father had smacked him.

John grabbed a fistful of his son's shirt, pulling him close.

"For the rest of the day, I need you to keep your mouth closed, and let me do all the talking. You smile and nod and that's it! Got it?"

Dean nodded, his gaze falling to the ground.

He followed John back to the car, and got in, not saying a word. He felt the Impala start up, recalling from years before, how comforting that low rumble was. How every time he heard it pulling up, he knew John was home, and everything would be safe and alright.

But things were different now.

He couldn't hear her soothing purr, and he sure as hell didn't feel safe anymore.

**A/N : It's sad that I can find time to write at the busiest time of the year...Besides that, THANK YOU to all who have reviewed or favorited me. I really, really do appreciate you taking the time out to give this little story a chance. And no, sorry people, John is not possessed. **


	7. Save Me

**The Illusionist**

**Chapter 6 : Save Me**

Dean watched as the tiny police station came into view, and wondered what his father was up to. He looked over at John as the man parked the Impala in front of the building.

"Stay here. I'll be back in a minute," the older man ordered, and got out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

The younger Winchester couldn't hear the damn thing slam, but he definitely felt the force of it. He could feel the ache start to creep across his chest again, and the pain start to settle in, just as the cold was beginning to seep into the car.

He was about to drift into his thoughts when his phone suddenly vibrated. He retrieved it from his pants pocket, an eyebrow raising at the **NEW VIDEO MESSAGE** that awaited him after he flipped the device open. Hesitantly, he opened the message, not recognizing the sender's number.

Sam's smiling face greeted him from the phone, the picture slowly adjusting to show the top half of his brother's lanky frame.

Dean could feel his heart quicken and his eyes water simultaneously as the video began to play, Sam starting to speak and sign.

"Hey, Dean. I'm sorry I haven't gotten a hold of you until now. Things have been really busy here. I've only got twenty more seconds, so I just wanted to say that I love you, and I hope you're doing okay. Later, jerk," he said with a wide grin, finger-spelling the last word.

The video ended, and all Dean could do was stare at the still picture of his little brother, tears forming two rivers down his cheeks. He pressed play and watched it again and again, branding the images into his mind. He took note that the eighteen-year old seemed genuinely happy, albeit looking a little on the thin side.

He was about to send a text back when he felt a cold gust of air hit him. He looked to the driver's side and saw his father about to get back in the car. The twenty-two year old wiped the saltine trails from his face as fast as he could, not wanting to know what his father would say if he saw him crying. He hurriedly pocketed the phone as well, keeping Sam's video to himself for now.

John said nothing as he tossed a file on Dean's lap and started the car.

Dean carefully opened it, and started skimming through the papers. It had the addresses of everywhere one Delilah Sharp had resided, and the last one stated that she'd moved back to Plain City around six months before the first infant had gone missing.

The twenty-two year old's gaze drifted over to John, the sight of the older man's lips moving and he not realizing it causing his heartbeat to quicken. All he could catch was "get that witch."

He chose not to interrupt his father, and decided to just nod like the older of the two Winchester's had told him to earlier.

It wasn't long before they pulled up in front of the diner, the restaurant's windows all fogged up and sweating. It looked like something out of a scene Dean had read about in a Stephen King novel awhile ago. The thought made him shiver as he got out of the car, and followed his father in, the smell of the place already getting to him.

They sat down in a booth John picked near the back of the nearly empty establishment. Breakfast had been over for an hour or so and the early lunch runners wouldn't be in for another hour or two.

The same waitress that had rung Dean out that morning came up to them, an eyebrow raising at the sight of the younger Winchester.

"Back for more, huh?" she asked, gum still smacking around in her mouth.

_Probably the same damn piece from earlier, _Dean thought, smiling and nodding despite the irritated feeling he got around the woman.

"And you brought a friend this time. What can I get you two?" the woman inquired, her recently dyed hair held in place with a whole can's worth of hairspray.

"Two coffees and whatever the daily special is," John answered for the both of them, offering up a fake polite smile to the waitress.

"You got it. It'll be ready in about ten minutes," she said with a wink, and disappeared behind the counter.

"I think she's going to try to take the last child two days from now," Dean announced, his eyes immediately focusing on John's lips as he replied.

"And what makes you think that?" the older man asked incredulously, glancing at his son then over his shoulder at the waitress returning with their coffees.

Dean waited until the woman was gone again before continuing.

"I was looking over the articles, and I realized that she operates on a pattern. She takes a child every five days, and the last one taken was three days ago so..."

"Now we have to figure out which child she's going to take next. At least this town's small enough so it shouldn't be that damn hard to figure out," John said, stern look still plastered across his face as he stirred the steaming cup of coffee.

"I think I already know which family she might hit next," the twenty-two year old stated reluctantly.

"It's the only other family she's been working for that hasn't had their child taken," Dean explained, pushing the open file across the table and pointing to the woman's employment history. "I still can't believe the police ruled her out as a suspect..." his voice trailed off. He looked to his father for some type of approval, but the man just nodded and continued speaking.

"Well, that settles it then. We'll get this bit—" John cut himself off as their waitress returned yet again, this time with their food.

"You boys need anything else?" she queried, unable to keep her eyes off John.

"No, we're good, thanks," the older Winchester replied, giving the woman a wink.

The gesture made Dean want to gag. It was one thing to do it yourself, but to see your own father doing it just didn't seem right.

"Alright, let me know if there's anything else I can get you," she said, giving John one final once-over before heading to the table behind them.

"Something to puke in maybe..." Dean hadn't realized he'd said anything until he felt his father's steel-toed boot connect with his shin underneath the table. The younger Winchester let a cry of pain before biting his bottom lip, attempting to silence himself. "Sorry, sir," he added, noting the glare John shot him.

He began to pick at the food on his plate, John's words from earlier echoing in his head. He took a few bites, and pushed the almost full dish away. He wasn't all that hungry anyway. At least, that's what he kept telling himself.

_One more night, then maybe I'll actually get some sleep..._

Hell, he could hope.

* * *

He'd been out in the freezing cold for over an hour, and no sign of the hag yet. Dean was on the brink of self-doubt, thinking that maybe he'd been wrong when he saw the trees nearest the child's room start to rustle. His heartbeat immediately quickened when he realized what was going on. The twenty-two year old hurriedly sent a text to John, who was waiting in the baby's room.

They both knew going in that this was going to be a risky hunt. And unfortunately, there was no way to convince the couple whose child they were trying to protect that there was a monster coming for it, and they needed to use the baby as bait.

They'd went over and over the facts, but there was just no other way. The only way to kill the damn thing was to shoot or behead it while or as it was about to feed. That was when it was at its weakest point. So they had a window of less than five seconds to kill it, and another thirty to remove it before the parents came bursting in. That's how Dean got the job of keeping watch, because John felt he couldn't handle everything else.

The younger Winchester looked up from the phone, his brow crinkling in disgust at the large bird-like creature that was now peering in the window, staring at the sleeping infant. Even in the dark of night, he could see its dark brown feathers, and razor sharp talons. The small patch of moonlight that trickled through the tree's branches made them gleam like shiny new knives. Its stomach appeared bloated, and its beak looked to be almost a foot long in length. Its sapphire-colored eyes looked dead and cold.

He wanted to shoot it right then and there, blow its brains out, and burn the thing until all that remained of it was ashes; but he knew he had to be patient. But that didn't stop his trigger finger from being itchy.

The twenty-two year old watched as it slowly slid its beak underneath the pane of glass and unhitched the lock. It wasted no time lifting the window up and climbing in; its long, skinny legs barely able to make it over the ledge.

Dean waited for a moment with baited breath, growing more concerned when it seemed to be taking too long. Cautiously, he made his way over to the window, gun at the ready. He quickly took a peak in, careful to not let the thing see him.

The creature was standing over the child's crib, its lifeless eyes focused on the infant that was fast asleep. Suddenly, its head turned toward the corner of the room, where John was standing, gun pointed right at the beast's heart. Dean watched as it lunged for his father, acute beak aimed straight for his chest.

The twenty-two year old could see John's gun going off, but the man's aim was off, and the bullet only grazed the side of the strix's face. Even though the older Winchester had equipped a silencer on his gun for this hunt, the commotion that was going on was sure to wake the child's parents.

Seeing his father in trouble, Dean hurriedly jumped through the open window, a sideways glance telling him that the baby was now crying its lungs out. He moved as fast he could, and took the best possible shot, the specially calibrated iron bullet penetrating the creature's body at almost the exact point he prayed it would.

The thing slumped lifelessly to the floor, its body transforming before their eyes. The baby-sitter he'd read so much about was now dead on the floor, blood beginning to pool around her, those empty blue eyes glazed over and fixed staring at the ceiling.

Before he knew it, John was pushing the younger Winchester towards the window, the man's mouth moving too fast for Dean to understand a damn thing he was saying.

They'd made it to the car in about twenty seconds, but in that quick amount of time, Dean was able to see that something was wrong with his father. The older man stumbled on his last few steps, and that's when Dean saw the blood that was now seeping through his father's jacket, a more than generous amount trailing down his torso and falling to the cold, awaiting ground.

He grabbed the keys from John's shaking hands, and guided the man to the passenger side of the car.

"I got it, Dad," he stated, attempting to help the older man into the Impala. The younger Winchester got a little resistance from his father, but ignored it, and quickly climbed into the driver's side. He retrieved a rag from the back seat, and pressed it onto the wound on his father's chest, all the while starting up the '67 Chevy.

He put it into drive and sped all the way back to the motel, eyes constantly darting back and forth between the road and the older Winchester. John was still awake, but his face was pale and drawn, tired eyes barely able to stay open.

It didn't take long for the motel to come into view. Dean pulled onto the lot, and parked right in front of their door. He hopped out of the car, and ran over to the passenger side, opening the door before his father had the chance to.

He slung an arm underneath John's good one and pulled him up, trying his best to help out the wounded man. Dean could see his father's lips moving again, but he didn't have to time to pay attention to what was coming out of them. All he could focus on was getting John into the room and cleaned up. He did his best to guide his father through the doorway, and to the closest bed.

The twenty-two rushed back out to the Impala, and popped open the trunk, grabbing the first aid kit and hurrying back inside.

He carefully peeled John's jacket from his body, trying his best to ignore the grimace that the older man made. Next went the plaid button-up and the black tee underneath, both tossed to the floor.

Dean's green eyes widened upon seeing the actual wound, the whole in John's chest approximately a half inch in diameter, looking more like a bullet wound than a stab wound. The only upside to it was that it was positioned more towards John's shoulder than the man's heart, but that didn't stop Dean from realizing what he'd done.

The bullet had went straight through the hag and right into his father.

"Shit!" the twenty-two year old exclaimed, his heart attempting to beat right out of his chest. _Shitshitshit! Look what you've done! _He'd patched his father up many a time, but he'd never had to fish a bullet out of him before. The thought of going to the hospital lingered for about a second, but he remembered that the nearest one to them was more than thirty miles away, and John would more than likely refuse if he could. And by the looks of things, there wasn't enough time anyway.

"Dad, you gotta lie back," he ordered, gently pushing the man down on the bed. John was coherent, but just barely. "Just lie still. Just hold on, okay?" He kept talking as he gathered up all the supplies he would need to get the job done. Once he'd gotten everything, he set it all down on the nightstand, reaching for the towels first.

He took the smallest one and twisted it, putting it up to his father's mouth, the man reluctantly biting down on it. Next came the disinfectant, in which this case it turned out to be the bottle of Jack Daniels his father had been hiding in his duffel. Dean poured it over the wound, and then over the tweezers he'd retrieved from the medical kit, not having the time to boil them.

"Please stay as still as you can, Dad. We both know this is gonna hurt like a bitch, and the more you move, the worse it's gonna be," he instructed his father, giving the man a quick glance before digging the tweezers into the wound. John's back arched slightly, and the pain was evident in his face, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

Dean worked with surprisingly steady hands, while doing his best to keep his father down and locating the bullet simultaneously. It took no more than a few seconds before he felt the piece of metal buried within his father's flesh and muscle. As quickly and as carefully as he could, he pulled it out, immediately covering the wound with an alcohol soaked patch and putting as much pressure on it as he could.

He glanced at his father's face again, slightly shocked that the man was still conscious. John was murmuring something, but it was unclear to Dean exactly what it was.

"I'm almost done. Just gotta sew you up," the younger Winchester said, green eyes gleaming, his unheard voice wavering. He'd sewn up himself and his father and Sam more times than he could count, but it still never got any easier. It took him the better part of three minutes to get it completely shut and closed. He then placed a few gauze pads over the wound, and held them in place with the small amount of medical tape that had been in the first aid kit. He made a note to himself to get more in the morning.

Before John passed out completely, Dean pushed two white pills past his lips, and forced the man to swallow the water that followed soon after. He'd have to find some way to get a hold of some more of the painkillers and antibiotics, seeing that there were only a few left in their respective bottles.

The adrenaline was starting to wear off, and he could feel his entire body beginning to tremble. The twenty-two year old stared at his father for a long moment before pulling the cheap sheets up to the man's chest, to just below the wound. He did a quick clean up of the room, tossing the bloodied towels and his father's clothing into a garbage bag, and headed outside.

He went over to the Impala, and opened the trunk, hiding the bag as best he could. He'd dispose of it in the next town they came across, one that was far away from where they were at now. But that would be at least a few days away at most. He knew they'd have to get out of there sooner rather than later, but moving his father wasn't an option at the moment, and he still had to find some way to dispose of the hag's remains. He'd read somewhere that even if you killed one of those things, it was still possible for them to resurrect, and the only way to make sure it was completely gone was to torch and burn the creature.

It wouldn't be easy, that much was for sure.

John would probably be out for a day or two, and even with close monitoring, Dean still considered the thought of getting a hold of Bobby. Trying to take care of a wounded man, and steal a body was a two man job. He knew he wasn't capable of doing both on his own. Even though he knew his father would hate the idea of calling in someone else...

Sam's smiling face flashed through his mind for a few seconds, but be pushed the image away. He knew he couldn't bother his little brother, especially due to the fact that it was _his_ fuck-up, and on top of that, he didn't want Sam to worry. What he didn't know couldn't hurt him, and that genuine smile in that video only showcased the fact that the teen was actually happy for once in his life, and not bogged down by hunting and monsters.

Letting out a shaky sign, he pulled out his phone, trying desperately to ignore the dried blood that was now present all over his trembling hands.

He could feel the cold tears of shame and hate starting to stream down his cheeks as he typed the message.

**Bobby? It's Dean. I need your help...**

**

* * *

**

**A/N : Once again, thank you all for your kind reviews. I do appreciate them! :D This story is going to be a lot longer than I originally anticipated, and all I can say is things only get worse before they get _slightly _better. Thank you all once again, and if I don't get another chapter up before Christmas, I wish you all a Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Feliz Navidad, happy Kwanzaa, Boxing Day or whatever else you like to celebrate. Or even if you don't celebrate anything at all. Thanks everyone! :)**


	8. Some Kind of Monster

**The Illusionist**

**Chapter 7 : Some Kind of Monster**

_They'd gotten drunk somewhere between the six and eighth shots of Jack, neither of them really caring to notice; the two men too caught up in telling old hunting stories to really care. _

"_So I'm running on empty, I've been chasing this bastard for the better part of the night, right? I don't think I ever ran faster than I did since then. Anyway, I'm about ten feet behind 'em, and it is pitch fucking black out—like you can barely see your damn hand in front of you black—and I'm chasing 'em by the sound of his footsteps, and all of a sudden I hear the loudest smack," John paused, laughter starting to creep into his voice. "The footsteps stopped, no leaves rustlin', nothin'. So I pull out my flashlight, and low and behold, he'd ran smack dab into some kind of rock wall and knocked his ass out! Lord, that was something..." he trailed off, unable to stifle the chuckle that escaped from his lips. "Dumbest chupacabra I've ever seen."_

_Bobby let out a low laugh as he poured himself another shot and gulped it down, letting the smooth amber liquid slide down his throat and warm him a little more. _

_He'd needed it after the hunt they'd just been through. A small pack of vamps had been causing trouble in northern Iowa, and even though it took a few days longer than expected, they'd managed to put them down. Not without a little resistance, of course, of which Dean bore the brunt of. The teen had gotten a few cracked ribs, and a twisted ankle, but other than that, was doing alright._

_But Bobby couldn't help but notice when he was patching the nineteen-year old up that there were quite a few more scars on the kid than he'd last remembered. He'd pushed the thought back though, withholding his words. It was a dangerous job, and being deaf didn't exactly make it any better. The teen was sure to make a few more mistakes than the average hunter, but he was a damn good one, that was for sure._

_Singer pushed his thoughts back as the said teen entered the man's kitchen, trying desperately to hide the limp that he'd acquired. _

"_Hey, kid," the older man said, his fingers loosely signing the words as the last shot of alcohol kicked in._

_Dean smiled albeit a little shyly, responding with his hands. 'Hey, Bobby.'_

"_What'cha doin' up? Thought you'd be tuckered out after that hunt," the man stated with a wink, continuing to sign along for the boy._

_'Thirsty,' he replied, grimacing in pain as he reached for an empty glass. _

_Bobby immediately jumped up, and went over to him, ignoring the slight spin of the room._

"_Hey, why don't you lie back down and I'll get ya somethin' to drink, alright?" the older hunter offered, placing a gentle hand on the teen's shoulder. _

"_Oh, he's a big boy," John started in, slowly pulling himself up and out of the chair he'd been relaxing in. "Ain't that right, Dean?" he asked, stepping up behind his son and slapping him on the back. _

_Hard._

_Involuntary tears came to the younger hunter's eyes as he tried his best not to show how badly his father's gesture hurt. One of the vamps had slammed him straight into a concrete wall, and the bruise that covered his back was massive._

"_You know, it wouldn't hurt ya to learn sign language, John. At least enough to communicate with your own son," Bobby chided, anger starting to churn through his veins. If there was one thing he couldn't stand about John Winchester, it was the way he treated his sons, like they were his own personal toy soldiers fighting in his one-man war. _

"_Oh, I know sign language alright," John shot back, drunken smile still plastered across his visage. He immediately lifted his hand, and gave his friend and sometimes co-hunter the finger. "I didn't even need Dean to teach me that one," he added still smiling, though there was now a dangerous gleam to his eyes._

"_You may think that's funny, but it's not. You don't think that bothers him in the slightest?" Bobby didn't even try to hide the anger he felt that time, the man throwing a challenging look of his own back at the other man._

_Dean was frozen in between the two men, only able to look back and forth as their lips moved faster and angrier. He hadn't caught all the conversation, but he knew it was now centered around him, and that was never a good thing._

"_If it bothered him so much, then he would tell me!" the oldest Winchester returned heatedly, his voice rising a few notches._

"_Ha! Tell you? He's too damned afraid of you to say anything! He just does whatever you tell him to, and forgets about himself. God forbid the boy have a thought of his own!" Bobby shouted, hands curling into fists at his sides. "If he's not taking care of Sam, he's taking care of you! Goddammit, John! He almost got killed, and you didn't even tell him what a damn fine job he did taking those bastards out! If it wasn't for him, you coulda been one of those damn things right about now!" _

"_Please stop," Dean's voice was so low it didn't even register with either man. They were too busy in each others faces to hear him._

"_I can congratulate him all I want, Singer, but all that praising ain't gonna do shit in a life or death situation! And he knows that! And so should you!" John fired back, veins clearly popping out on his forehead. _

"_That's bullshit! If the kid never hears anything good—"_

"_If the kid never hears anything good, then he'll be constantly thinking of ways to improve himself instead of getting an inflated head!" the oldest Winchester countered, coming within a few inches of his soon-to-be ex-friend's face. _

"_You treat him like the goddamn dirt on the bottom of your shoe! You walk all over him, then when you're done using him, you leave him behind in some god-forsaken motel in the middle of nowhere until you need his help again! And he's never told you no, has he? He's risked life and limb for you, and he's got nothing to show for it! Not one damn thing!" Bobby shouted, already seeing his fist connect with John's face before he could stop it. _

_It didn't take long before they were exchanging blows, and it didn't take long before Dean tried to come between them. He tried his best to separate the two men, but he was no match for the two seasoned hunters. Two drunk seasoned hunters at that. _

"_I swear to God if you've laid a hand on that boy, you won't be able to feel either one of your hands when I'm done with them!" Bobby shouted between punches._

"_I don't know what he told you—"_

"_He didn't tell me anything! He doesn't have to! It's written all over his face! Every damned time he comes near you, I can see it!" the trucker-cap-wearing man yelled, eyes ablaze with fury._

_John landed a punch square in Bobby's jaw, the force throwing the man off balance and to the floor. _

_Before he realized what he was doing, Singer pulled the shotgun out from underneath his desk and stood, pointing the weapon at the ex-marine standing before him._

"_You've got ten seconds to get the hell out of my house," Bobby warned, his tone waning on deathly serious. He glanced over at the younger Winchester, whose green eyes were wide and scared. "Dean, you are welcomed to stay here, but your daddy has got to go."_

_A fifteen-year-old Sam took that moment to burst through the front door, mouth wide and on the verge of announcing something until he saw what was happening. _

"_W-what's going on?" the youngest Winchester asked unsurely, hazel eyes traveling between his father, his brother, and Bobby._

"_We've been uninvited from your Uncle Bobby's house," John responded, brow furrowed in anger._

"_The boys aren't uninvited, John. Just you," the other hunter stated, gun still at the ready. "Five...four...three..."_

"_And you call me crazy," John said, shaking his head. "Let's go." When he realized his sons weren't following him, he tried again. "I said let's go! And that's an order!" he yelled, staring at the two wide eyed teens torn between wanting to stay, but both knowing they had to leave._

_'Sorry, Bobby,' Dean signed sadly, green eyes glimmering in the din of the room. The middle Winchester silently followed his father out the door, pulling Sam along as well._

_It'd be three years before they saw each other again..._

_

* * *

_

Dean paced nervously around the motel room, glancing every so often between his father and the window. He'd received a text back from Bobby informing him that he'd be there as soon as he could. He knew the man drove like his father, so instead of a twenty hour drive, it'd be somewhere around fifteen. Or less.

His legs kept carrying him from one end of the room to another, a glimpse at the clock telling him that twelve hours had passed since he'd received that text.

In that time, he'd managed to sneak into the only pharmacy in town, thankful that the place didn't even have a proper working alarm system on it. Just a few cheap stickers on the windows, and an empty plastic case on the wall that resembled the real thing.

He'd gotten enough pain pills and antibiotics to last a month or so, even though he hoped his father wouldn't need them for that long. The bullet hadn't gone in too deep, but a bullet wound was a bullet wound and could still get infected. Therefore, John wasn't exactly out of the woods yet.

_Please hurry, Bobby..._

_

* * *

_

He'd been on the road for quite some time, seen the light of day come, and as he entered the small town, watched the night swallow it up. He was tired. Dead damned tired, but he told the boy he'd be there, and he couldn't manage to break a promise to Dean. The kid was like a son to him, and just the fact that he was scared enough to contact him meant something bad had happened. Because Bobby was never called when something _good_ actually happened.

_That'll be the day,_ the older man thought, the slightest hint of a smirk pulling at his lips.

It didn't take long to find the motel Dean had texted him the directions to, the parking lot nearly empty, and the Impala no where in sight. His brow lowered at this, leaving him to wonder if he'd been given the wrong address, but within seconds of his arrival, he saw a door open and a figure that looked like the middle Winchester step out, waving him on over.

From far away, the older hunter couldn't see it, but as he exited his car to greet the twenty-two year old, he could feel his eyes widen involuntarily.

Yellow and light-purplish bruises decorated the right side of the young man's face, which Bobby also noticed was thinner, more so than he recalled from their last time seeing each other. There were dark circles underneath his eyes, and fear in those bright green orbs. Bobby could feel his heart sink further and further with each passing step.

"Dean-"

"I shot him, Bobby," the words tumbled from the younger hunter's lips. "I-I shot him." There were tears now in those bright green eyes, and abashed guilt.

It took a minute for the boy's words to set in, and just the fact that Dean was actually speaking spoke volumes.

"Calm down now, son," the older hunter stated, placing a comforting hand on the twenty-two year old's shaking shoulder. "Let's go take a look at 'em, and tell me exactly what happened. Alright?"

Dean slowly nodded, pushing back the tears as he led the older man into the motel room, and closing the door behind them.

"We were hunting a strix, and it was about to get him. The bullet went straight through it, and...into him," he said, nodding to his father. "I-I did the best I could..."

"From the looks of it, you did a damn fine job," Bobby stated, examining the freshly dressed and cleaned wound. He glanced up at Dean, taking note of the slightly confused look on the kid's face, and realizing the younger hunter hadn't been able to read his lips. "You did a good job, son. Looks like your old man is gonna be just fine. So," he paused, reminding himself to sign as he spoke. "What is it exactly that you need me for?"

"I didn't get a chance to burn the body, and it doesn't happen often, but there's a chance it could come back to life..." Dean explained, worry present in his eyes. "I...I can't do it by myself," he admitted, his brow furrowed in slight embarrassment. He hated asking for any type of help, but in this instance, he knew he had no other choice.

"Well, let's get to it then. What do you need me to do?" the older hunter asked, noting the distressed look on the younger hunter's face. "What is it? What's wrong, son?"

Dean stared at him for a moment before speaking, his hands starting to sign along with his words. "When the strix died, it turned back into human form, so it looks like a regular homicide, and I think they think me and Dad did it." Before Bobby could ask why, Dean continued with his theory. "I think someone saw us when we were leaving the house. And even though the cops around here aren't anything to write home about, they could probably put two and two together. Me and Dad were posing as police from Columbus, and this is a pretty small town, so world travels fast. It doesn't help that the car's easily recognizable so, and we haven't been at the police station since it happened..."

"I see, so at this point, it looks like you all are the culprits for everything." _That's why he hid the car. Smart kid, _Bobby thought. "So what's the plan?" he asked, watching the wheels already starting to turn in Dean's head.

"Well, I need a distraction..."

As Bobby listened to the twenty-two year old, he hoped everything would go as smoothly as Dean was thinking it would. But being a hunter for over twenty years told him that nothing ever went as smoothly as it should.

**A/N - I'm sorry the chap's so short, and it's taken me over two months to update. RL and my attempt at writing original fiction has gotten in my way from posting this. So now it looks like I'll be trying to do both, so it might be a bit longer for updates. Oh, and John hasn't always hit Dean. That didn't start until after Sam left. He was somewhat of an ass to him before, but not as bad as it is now. But we all know Dean's in it for the long run, and well, I'll just leave it at that. Hopefully, I'll get the next chap up sooner. Thanks everyone for your reviews! They are much appreciated! **


	9. What I Know

**The Illusionist**

**Chapter 8 : What I Know**

The car ride to the police station was quiet, and Bobby didn't like it one bit. He could tell there was something wrong with Dean, more than what the kid had led on anyway. He didn't want to admit it to himself, but somewhere deep inside, he knew that those fading bruises on the younger hunter's face were from John. He just wished he could get it out of the kid, but he knew Dean all too well, and that wasn't going to happen. If John told the boy the sky was purple, the kid would swear up and down that it was true. He hated the fact that the twenty-two year old followed the man so blindly.

Bobby glanced over, watching Dean's fingers tap away nervously on the passenger side door panel. If he didn't know any better, he'd say it was the beat to AC/DCs _Highway To Hell, _a song Dean wouldn't have heard in over twelve years. _Twelve damned years since he's been able to hear anything... _The thought made the man swallow back down the tiny knot that had formed in his throat. After countless years of hunting and killing monsters and supernatural creatures, Dean was the only one that could get to him. There was just something about that boy that dug down deep inside and tore into his heart. What was left of it anyway.

"That's it just up ahead," Dean said, pointing to the small building that stood a half a block in front of them. Bobby nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of the kid's voice, his mind a world away. He cleared his throat before speaking, knowing that even though Dean wouldn't be able to hear the way it wavered, he still would.

"Alright," he said with a nod, pulling the car over and putting it into park. He turned towards Dean so the younger hunter would be able to read his lips. "I'll let you in as soon as I clear everybody out so be ready."

Dean nodded in understanding and gave Bobby a tired smile. "_Thanks again, Bobby."_ He let his hands do the speaking for him that time, the embarrassment he felt when talking returning. He'd seen the expression on the older hunter's face when he'd spoken last; how sad the man had looked. The kid just didn't know how happy Bobby was to hear his voice.

Bobby gave another nod in response, and got out of the car. He glanced at his reflection in the window of his car, feeling naked without his trademark trucker hat on, but he needed to look the part, so he had to go without it for now.

Taking a deep breath, he threw open the door to the small police station, and hurried in. The first person he saw was the receptionist, and he nearly smiled to himself as he recalled Dean saying she was probably "_one hamburger short of a happy meal_."

"Hello, miss, I'm with the gas company and it appears there may be a leak in here. I need to get everyone out right now," he stated authoritatively, eyes scanning the nearly empty looking office.

"Oh my Lord, are you serious?" she asked, a southern accent coming off her lips as she placed a hand over her chest in worry.

"Very much so, I'm afraid. Now I'll need everyone to exit the building as a precaution. Don't want anyone getting blown up now, do we?"

She shook her head, her black curls bouncing away as she did so. "I'll go get the boys right now," she said and stood up, her heals clacking on the floor as she ran through the station. "Bill! Bill, we have to get out of here! The gas man says there might be a leak!" Bobby heard her yelling.

"Not again! Sonuvabitch!" he heard a man shout. "This is the third time in the past two months! I thought they fixed that shit."

"No need to get so worked up, officer," Bobby said as he peaked his head into the room the voice came from. "I'll have this matter taken care of in no time. If you and your deputy and this fine lil' lady here could just step outside for me—Or you know what? Better yet," he went on. "It's a bit too cold for you all to be waiting outside, so how about you just go down to the diner, and I'll swing by and get ya when I've got this under control. How's that sound?"

The two officers looked at each for a moment then nodded.

"My name's Deputy Bill Saul," the one he'd heard shout earlier said, holding out a hand for Bobby to shake. The hunter quickly did so, then began to usher them out. "If you need anything—"

Bobby cut him off with a smile and a polite push out the door. "I won't. Don't you worry. This should take me about an hour tops, and then it'll be all yours. And I promise, it won't happen again. Whoever they sent out the last two times, well, I'll make sure they're taken care of. Alright? Alright," he answered himself and closed the door tight, thanking his lucky stars that he was dealing with a bunch of idjits.

He quickly took stock of his surroundings, going from room to room until he found the back door. He pushed it open, and stuck his head out, waving Dean in. The younger hunter promptly ran over, signing, _"That was fast,"_ as he stepped through the door.

Bobby signed as he spoke. "Yeah, well, you were right. If I didn't know any better, I'd almost say there _was_ a gas leak in here, as dumb they were."

Dean smiled a little at that, but then recovered quickly, his mask falling back into place. _"This way," _he signed, heading towards a room down at the end of the hall. He turned towards Bobby when he reached the door. _"This is where it should-"_

Bobby cut him off, placing a hand on one of Dean's. "Do me a favor, son. While we're doing this, go ahead and speak to me. It'll be a lot easier for the both of us, okay?"

Dean stared at him for a second, then nodded in understanding. "This is where they should be holding it. Since it's a homicide investigation and all," he added, readying his gun.

"Alright, then. Let's get this party started," Bobby mumbled, taking his .45 out of the tool case he'd brought in. He cautiously cracked open the door, blue eyes scanning the small room before him. It looked as though it had been a storage area, but as the white cot in the corner of the room proved, was now a make-shift morgue. He stepped in, gun at the ready, and slowly made his way over to the corner where the cot was, with Dean in tow.

"We're gonna move her on three, alright?" Bobby asked, glancing at Dean to make sure he got the message.

"Got it," Dean replied, temporarily shoving his weapon between the small of his back and his waistband.

"One, two, three," Bobby counted, prepared for a weight heavier than the one he was now lifting. He immediately let go of the "body" and yanked the sheet off of it, a CPR dummy laying in its place.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean exclaimed, worried green eyes already scanning the empty room. "This is where she was supposed to be! Dad said when he was talking to the receptionist this is the holding room. I don't understand..."

"Calm down now, son. We'll figure this out," the older hunter said and signed simultaneously. "Is it possible they could have moved her to the funeral home already?"

Dean stood silent, thinking, running an anxious hand through his hair. He immediately felt stupid for not realizing the possibility sooner. "Yeah, it is," he said, trying desperately not to let the disappointment he felt in himself be seen, but it was too late; Bobby had already caught it.

"Dean, don't be so hard on yourself. We'll get her," the older hunter stated, hating the way the twenty-two year old never gave himself enough credit. He was about to put a reassuring hand on the kid's shoulder when Dean backed away, flashing an offended look, then shooting a fake grin Bobby's way.

"C'mon, Bobby. No chick flick moments. I'm fine." He offered up another smile, one not as cocky as before, but the older, wiser hunter saw through it, saw the tired lines that accented the boy's eyes, and the weariness that swam deep within them.

"If you say so," Bobby said, more to himself than Dean. "If you say so."

* * *

The funeral home was long closed by the time they got there, the dark, partly-clouded sky showcasing how late it was.

Bobby scanned the immediate area as Dean picked the lock, an easy feat for the young hunter, but his counterpart didn't miss the way the boy's pale hands shook a little before cracking open the door.

They went in silently, neither saying a word as they made their way through the main entrance and down one of the moonlit halls. The place was small, and it didn't take long for them to find the mortician's room.

Dean entered in front this time, sawed-off pointed straight ahead, ready to erupt at a moment's notice. He surveyed the room, taking in the sight of the large table in the middle of it, and the body that lay on top of it, a white sheet covering its form. He glanced back at Bobby and gave a quick nod towards the table, his feet automatically carrying him over to it. He took a deep breath and pulled the sheet back, relief and anger somehow managing to wash over his face at the same time, seeing that it was one Delilah Sharp laying there before him. He let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, glancing up at Bobby as he did so.

"You sure this is her?" Bobby asked sarcastically, though Dean didn't need to hear the way the man said it; the expression on his face told the twenty-two year old all he needed to know.

"_Yes, I'm sure," _he signed back, his lips tilted up in a smirk. "Now let's get this bitch," he said, but as he was reaching for her, a hand gripped his arm; and it wasn't Bobby's.

Dean let out a choked cry of surprise, his green eyes widening as he looked down to see the woman's dead sapphire eyes staring back up at him, a cold grin spreading across lips that looked black in the darkness.

"Dean!" Bobby shouted when he saw the look on the younger hunter's face transform from business ready to scared out of his wits. "Dean!" he repeated, moving forward and grabbing the twenty-two year old by his shoulders. "What the hell is wrong with you boy?"

Dean backed away from the man's grasp and pointed at the moving corpse, but as he took a good look at it again, he realized it hadn't moved at all. The white sheet was still were he'd left it, the dead woman's arms still laying lifeless at her sides.

His gaze slowly traveled from the table to Bobby, worry present in the older hunter's eyes. Embarrassment and anger began to flood through Dean, his jaw clenching in response.

"I'm fine," he forced himself to speak, now avoiding the older hunter's stare. "Haven't been getting much sleep." He paused, sending a glance Bobby's way before going back to the table. "Let's just get this over with," he added, preparing to move the body once more.

Bobby continued to stare at him for a long moment before going back over to the other end of the table, feeling nothing but worry for the younger hunter.

They managed to get the body moved and out of the town without any other disturbances. They found a spot about ten miles out, away from pretty much everything. The wooded area was dark and cold, the trees standing tall yet barren, frozen in the winter moonlight.

Dean made sure to pour the whole can of lighter fluid over the dead strix, holding the empty container over it until the very last drop came out. Pulling a book of matches from his jeans pocket, he hurriedly lit one and threw it on the body. He took a few steps back, knowing Bobby's eyes were fixed solely on him. Ever since the man had arrived, Dean had seen the look in his eyes; the look of sadness and worry. Dean had seen it many times before, and he hated the fact that as old as he was, he was still seeing it now.

"Thanks, Bobby." The words were barely audible over the sound of the burning corpse, the flames lapping and dancing hungrily in the dark night. "Thanks for coming..even after...you know..." He couldn't bring himself to look the other man in the eyes. Instead, he kept his gaze focused on the flames.

Bobby sighed, feeling defeated even though they'd just accomplished their goal. He put a hand on Dean's shoulder and forced the kid to turn his way, thankful for the little resistance the twenty-two year old put up.

"Will you stop with that, ya idjit?" he gently scolded, signing only the last word for emphasis.

"_Stop with what?"_ Dean signed back defensively, green eyes ablaze in the firelight.

"You know what I'm talkin' about. What happened in the past was John's fault. Not yours. You've got nothin' to feel bad about, so stop actin' like everything's your fault."

"_But it is!" _the twenty-two year old signed furiously, his brow creased in anger, hands and fingers moving so fast Bobby could hardly keep track of what he was saying. "_It is my fault! All of it, Bobby! The fact that you two don't speak anymore? My fault!"_ He slammed his hand against his own chest, much harder than needed for the sign. _"The fact that you had to come here to help my sorry ass? My fault! Why? Because I shot my own father! The reason Sam left? ME!"_ There were unwanted tears glistening in Dean's eyes now, his breath coming out in small puffs of mist that slowly faded away into the night. His shoulders were hunched, like the very weight of the world rested upon them.

"Is that what this is really all about? Your brother leavin'?" Bobby paused, watching Dean angrily swipe a stray tear with his jacket sleeve that he hadn't been able to blink away. "Now how in the hell could him leavin' be your fault?"

"_Don't you get it? He left because it was too much. He couldn't deal with me anymore! Who would want to?" _The last part wasn't signed in anger. His movements were slow, sad.

Bobby sighed, realizing he wasn't getting anywhere. The boy's skull was thick. Too much for his own good. He hoped as he grabbed Dean by the collar and shoved him against a nearby tree (not too hard) that maybe he'd knocked a little sense into him.

Dean's eyes widened upon impact, his breath being forced from his lungs temporarily.

The older hunter hated the way he was about to act, but it was for the kid's own good.

"Sam did not leave because of you, dammit! And you know this! He left because of John, not because of you, Dean. Not because of you! You and I both know all he's ever wanted is a normal life, and he was never gonna get it unless he left. So stop with all this feelin' sorry for yourself BS, and get your act together!" Bobby's grip softened a little, his blue eyes looking sad even though his brow was still narrowed in anger.

Dean stared at him for a long moment, on the verge of breaking down right in front of the seasoned hunter, but he restrained himself, blinking away the rest of the salty substance that was trying to sabotage his dignity. He was already angry at himself for saying much more than he'd intended. It _was_ time to put an end to it. At least for now.

"_You're right. I don't know what I was thinking. Thanks." _He forced a pained smile on his lips, and steadied his hands as he signed. He didn't speak though, because he could still feel the knot staying put in his throat, and to do so would only show Bobby that his attempt at saving the twenty-two year old had failed. Although somehow, he knew Bobby probably thought that anyway.

They stayed there until the corpse was all but ashes, blended in with the dirt and mud it had been burned in.

The drive back to the motel was just as silent as the one before it had been. Neither man had said one word until Bobby pulled the car to a stop in front of the room door.

"You know, my door's always open, Dean. Anytime. If you need anything-"

Dean cut him off, finally allowing himself to speak, although briefly.

"I know, Bobby. Thanks again. For everything." Dean flashed a quick, weary smile and got out of the car, making sure not to slam the door. He turned before he entered the motel room, and gave a small wave before disappearing out of sight, and out of Bobby's life for the next three years.

* * *

**A/N : I'm sorry it took so long everyone! My PC crashed and took all of my documents with it, and real life bogged me down too, but hey, at least there's a new chapter right? ;) Probably not the greatest, and took me forever to finish, but hopefully its good enough. Thank you all for your lovely reviews. They really are appreciated. :) **


	10. Gimme Shelter

**The Illusionist **

**Chapter 9 : Gimme Shelter**

"_You only have two choices. Your firstborn, or your baby. So, what's it gonna be Winchester?" The demon's black eyes gleamed maliciously, a victorious grin turning up the sides of her lips. When she was met with silence from the bound man, she taunted on. "If you're gonna be like that, then I'll just rid the world of them both..."_

_Those words got his attention._

"_Don't you even dare, you bitch! I swear to God I'm going to squeeze—"_

"_Ah ah ah," she said, waving a thin finger in his face. "Keep talking like that, and I promise, you won't see Dean or Sam ever again. All you'll have left of them will be memories. Just like the ones you have of your wife..." The smile was back, perfect white teeth appearing between two thin stretched lips. _

"_You will never lay a hand on my boys, you got me?" he shot back, dark eyes gleaming just as fiercely as hers, though there was fear swimming in them as well. He had to bite back the thought of the endless possibilities she'd laid out before him. This was going to come to an end. After five days of being tied up, tortured, and threatened, this was going to end._

_Now._

"_Oh, John, big bad John," she mocked, getting right in his face. "Trust me, sweetheart, you'll do more harm than good with that mouth." She back-handed him, harder than he'd ever felt before, the force causing one of his teeth to tear open the flesh inside his cheek. "Now, which is it gonna be? You've got less than an hour left, John, so you'd better make up your mind. Little Sammy here," she cooed, holding up a picture of his boys. "Or Dean, your little shadow."_

_He looked back up at her, his jaw clenched so tight he thought it might break. He slowly let it release and mumbled a reply._

"_What's that?" she asked, leaning further towards him. "Did John Winchester just say what I think he did?"_

"_In your dreams, bitch!" he growled, spitting the blood he'd been collecting in his mouth right into her eyes. _

"_Oh, that was cute. Real cute. Looks like I'll just have to do the deciding for you. Poor baby Sammy it is..."_

"_You wouldn't dare..." He growled, the fear growing larger in his brown eyes. His heart was pounding so loud, he could hardly hear the demon's next words. _

"_Oh, John. In the past few days, I think we've really gotten to know each other," she started off, actually pausing to sit down next to him and sling an arm around his shoulder like they were old acquaintances. "And from what I gather, I know you're one of those true-to-your-word type of guys. And see, well, I'm one of those true-to-your-word type of gals. So you should really know better than to fuck with me!" she shouted, grabbing him by the back of his head and slamming his face into the nearest wall. _

_Stars swam in his vision as she went on. _

"_So, you've got ten seconds. And I promise—no, I swear," she said, that dangerous grin coming back to her lips. "I swear to God if you don't decide then it will be over with for the both of them. Ten...nine...eight..."_

_He listened to her count down, sweat and blood running down his forehead and into his eyes, burning his already shoddy vision. _

"_Seven...six...five..."_

_He could feel the hate beginning to flood his bloodstream, it coursing through his veins at a dangerous pace._

"_Four...three...two..."_

_It wrapped itself around him tighter and tighter, inserting its thorns into his heart, and taking up residence in his soul._

"_This is the big one, John. You ready? One..."_

_He did. He hated himself. Through and through. He was responsible for getting himself into this mess. Him and him alone. _

_His throat almost closed up on him as he choked out the name. _

"_Dean."_

_There was no turning back now. _

_He was fucked for life._

* * *

He nearly lost control of the car as he snapped back to reality, bloodshot eyes refocusing on the road ahead and then glancing at the passenger seat next to him.

_He's alright. Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Winchester. Thanks to you, he'll never be alright._

John stared at the sleeping form of the twenty-three year old, feeling the great stabbing pain he felt every time he looked at the kid rise again in his chest. The moonlight that landed on his resting son showcased how much of a bastard he'd been being, even more so lately.

He could tell Dean had lost weight, that much was evident in the prominence of his cheekbones, and as his brown eyes traveled further down to the jacket sleeves that had ever so slightly ridden up, he saw how much thinner the younger hunter's wrists had gotten. No matter how many watches or bracelets he tried to hide it with, the truth was still there, right in his face.

John winced at the thought, because he knew it was all his fault. Everything was his fault. But at the moment, he felt like there was nothing he could do to correct it. Instead, he just continued to take it all out on the young man; all the anger, all the hate, he directed it all towards his oldest boy and hated himself to the core for it.

His brow narrowed as he zeroed in on the dark circles that had become permanent accessories on his son's face, and the black eye he was now sporting, courtesy of John himself. His glance flicked to the kid's hands again, a large purple and blue bruise running down the knuckle of his right index finger to his wrist. It was yet another reminder of the man he'd become since Sam had left.

Things had been bad for a long time before that, but now, a year after his youngest son had went off to college, things had become down right horrible.

He knew he treated Dean badly, even worse since the kid had accidentally shot him, and he knew it wasn't his son's fault—he knew this—but he just couldn't stop. He could see the pain, and the hurt in those damned green eyes..._looks just like his mother_...but he just couldn't stop. The anger would simmer and simmer until he couldn't take it anymore, and before he knew it, it would bubble up past the surface and he'd explode, screaming and yelling until his face had turned a dark shade of red, and Dean's black and blue.

He wanted to scream now—right now—but he couldn't. Even though he knew Dean couldn't hear him, he knew the boy would somehow sense it and wake up, asking the man if he was alright, and like the asshole that he was, John would just shrug him off and ignore him until the younger hunter fell back asleep.

Drops of rain started to pelt the windshield, softly at first, then growing louder and louder until he was forced to turn the windshield wipers on.

It was early November, and he'd gotten a call from Caleb about a poltergeist in Pennsylvania. They'd just got done with a salt and burn in Washington state, not more than three hours previous, and John had made sure they were on their way. That's how it had been; one never ending hunt after bullshit hunt. Hell, he couldn't even remember the last time they'd taken a break.

He was just about to turn the radio up a bit, just enough to keep him awake, when he heard Dean's phone start to vibrate. His brow narrowed at the unexpected distraction, his mind racing as to who it could be.

_Maybe it's that girl he left back in Ohio..._

After it buzzed for a full minute without Dean so much as moving a muscle, John reached into the younger hunter's jacket pocket and pulled it out. Glancing at the road, then at the phone, he felt his heart nearly stop as the name SAMMY blinked across the screen. Feeling the snake of anger start to slither through his veins, he flipped open the phone, and pushed the TALK button to accept the message.

The car came to an abrupt halt when a video of his youngest son popped up on the screen, California sunlight shining behind his smiling face as he started to sign out a message, but John didn't have to understand the sign language because luckily for him, Sam was speaking as he signed.

"It's been awhile since I heard from you, jerk. Text me back and let me know if you're okay. Okay? Talk to you later."

John wanted to yell and scream and cry at the same time.

_They've been keeping in touch this whole time._

He desperately wanted to control the anger that was starting to shake his hands, make his knuckles turn white, but he couldn't push it back. He wasn't strong enough.

Before he knew it, his hardened gaze had traveled to the passenger seat, a wide-eyed Dean staring fearfully back at him. He could faintly hear the murmur of "I'm sorry, sir," but the blood rushing through his ears drowned it out. His hands reacted before his brain could control them, grabbing at the kid's collar with all his strength, and pulling him forward, much too easily than before.

"Something you've been meaning to tell me?" John shouted, retrieving the phone from the floorboard (where he'd dropped it) with one hand, the other still holding on tightly to his son's collar. He pushed the small electronic device into Dean's face, all the while hating himself for the fear that showcased itself so brightly in his eldest son's eyes.

"I'm supposed to take care of him...Th-That's what you always told me to do... It's the only way to keep in touch. I-I'm sorry, Dad."

John hated it. Hated the way Dean's voice was shaking so badly when he spoke, knowing that what the kid was saying was the truth. But the anger just wouldn't go away. He could feel it intensify, and his hand reacted immediately with a slap to the twenty-three year old's face. He watched his son recoil, albeit just barely, the kid trying to remain strong as he accepted his punishment. Even though what he did wasn't wrong.

_Stop it, John! He was only doing what you told him! What you've been telling him for years! Can't you see that?_

He almost felt possessed—hell, he almost wished he was—because at least that would be some sort of justification for the way he was treating his own child. But he wasn't possessed. Not by a demon anyway, just by his own twisted mind.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Dean? Huh?" He stared at his son, his right hand clenched into a fist, ready to strike again if he received the wrong answer. Hell, just about any answer was wrong these days though.

_Get yourself under control! He's been keeping tabs on Sam all this time. You should be happy! Thankful, not angry...You should've been the one doing it yourself though. You know this. _

"He still needs us, Dad. He needs _us_."

Everything hit John at once when Dean voiced those words. He now heard the reason his son hadn't stirred when his phone had went off—he was sick, voice deepened by what sounded like a fairly bad cold. He'd been so wrapped up in everything that he hadn't even been paying attention, let alone really listening to him. And then, of course, what Dean had said. John knew it to be true, that's what hurt worse. He knew Sam still needed them, but in all actuality, they needed him more. But the seasoned hunter was so stubborn and set in his ways that he could never admit it; not out loud anyway.

_He's safe. Sam's safe..._

The rain started to pound harder on the car, and for a moment, John just sat there listening to it, letting his breathing even out. He shot a glance Dean's way, feeling absolutely horrible for the state his son was in.

"Go back to sleep," he ordered, letting his eyes linger a moment longer on Dean's confused face. The kid slowly nodded and curled back up in the seat, knees to his chest and his head against the window.

John started the car up and began driving, his mind traveling back to Sam's smiling but worried face in the video.

There were plenty of supernatural things happening in California. He was sure something would pop up there soon.

**A/N : Well, what do you all think? I hope I did John a little justice. He's working on it, but by no means will he be perfect. There's still plenty more angst and hurt!Dean to come. Thank you all once again for your reviews. I truly do appreciate them! :)**


	11. The Rain Song

**The Illusionist **

**Chapter 10 : The Rain Song**

The vibration from the thunder woke him from his dreamless sleep. The motel room was dark and chilly, the clock on the nightstand flashing 12:00 AM, meaning sometime while he was passed out, the power had surged. He was so exhausted that he hadn't even noticed.

It took a moment for him to realize that he was alone, his father no where in sight. Green eyes darted to the bathroom, only to find the door wide open and the lights off. Panic started to rise in his congested chest.

_He left you. You knew this day was coming..._

He shook his head, and rubbed his tired eyes, inwardly hoping that he was wrong. Dean knew his dad meant well. Times were tough, and life was hard, especially without Sam, but they were managing. To an extent anyway.

The twenty-three year old pulled himself up off the motel bed, taking note that his boots were still on as well as his coat, and Sam's hoodie, of course.

He walked over to the window, lightning flashing across the darkened night sky, temporarily lighting up the heavens. He watched it for a moment, a part of him wishing he could still hear the crackle of thunder that followed, one of the many sounds he missed from time to time.

He shrugged off the thought, and scanned the parking lot, the Impala nowhere in sight. He pulled out his phone to check the time, knowing it had to be late when it vibrated in his hands, NEW TEXT MESSAGE flashing across the screen. His brow narrowed as he flipped open the phone, Sam's name staring up at him. Reluctantly, he pushed the TALK button to open the message, almost afraid of what it might say. He hadn't responded back to his little brother after the incident with his father in the car. Three days had passed since then.

**You'd better be alright, Dean. **

He couldn't help but smile at the message. He could read the threatening undertone that was in between the lines, but he could still kick his little brother's ass any day of the week. The upward turn of his lips slowly faded though, knowing Sam wasn't going to like the text he was about to receive. Carefully, Dean typed a response.

**Im fine Sammy. Dad found out that we still speak. **

He waited for the reply, tucking a thumbnail nervously between two teeth. His phone buzzed less than thirty seconds later.

**So? What, are you not allowed talk to me anymore or something?**

Dean shook his head, wanting to laugh at Sam. Even when the nineteen-year old was angry, he still had to text each sentence perfectly.

**No. Thats not it.**

Dean had seen the look in his father's eyes when he saw Sam's face beaming back up at him from the phone screen. The man had looked absolutely crushed, and Dean hated the fact that he'd been the one to do that to him.

**Then what's the problem, Dean? Do you not want to speak to me anymore because the old man's upset? Whatever.**

Dean's jaw clenched at the last word, not liking the finality of it. His fingers hurriedly worked the buttons once more.

**Come on Sammy. Dont get ur panties in a bunch. I was just letting you know. He misses you you know. **

He waited, and waited a few more minutes without getting another text back so he tried again.

**Sammy you can stop acting like a princess now ok?**

Lightning lit up the world outside again as he took a seat near the window at the small wooden motel provided table. He sighed, and looked down at the dark screen of his phone, feeling the ache in his chest grow.

_Way to go, Dean. Way to go. _

He ran a frustrated hand through his too-long hair, making a mental note that it needed to be cut soon. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he realized a file folder was laying open on the table in front of him. A cough escaped his lips as he reached for it, feeling utterly blind for not seeing it sooner. He slid it closer, and peered down at the newspaper clippings.

There were a few from the real estate section, Dean taking note that it was the same house up for sale three times in the last two years, the price declining greatly with each new listing. Tired eyes scanned over the rest of the pages, the main headlines indicating that a child had died at the address twelve years previous.

_Shit_.

The more they dealt with cases involving children, the more he hated what he had to do; because somehow, in some way, shape, or form, the kid ended up reminding him of Sam, and made him feel guilty for banishing the poor thing's soul from its plane of existence.

Another cough escaped his lips, and he could feel the congestion rattling around in his chest that time. He tried to shake it off, but another coughing fit decided to erupt and replace the old one. After what felt like an hour, but couldn't have been more than a few minutes, it subsided, just as his father opened the motel door.

Dean looked up, trying desperately to blink away the involuntary tears that had flooded his eyes as a result of the fit, hoping John wouldn't be able to see them due to the lights not being on.

"Are you trying to go blind too?" his father asked a bit harshly, sending an incredulous stare his way as the older hunter flipped on the light switch.

"No, sir," he immediately responded, heat rising to his cheeks as he felt the congestion still coating his throat, and constricting his voice. He cleared his throat and tried again, praying that it didn't come out in some high-pitched squeak like it probably had before.

"Right," John stated, his brow still narrowed in disbelief. "Got something to eat," he said, motioning towards the plastic bag he sat down on the table.

Dean nodded in thanks, but didn't even attempt to reach for the bag's contents. Instead, he glanced back down at the file, then back up at his father. "Looks like we've got our work—"

His words were cut off by another coughing fit, sending more phlegm around inside his chest and up his throat. He hurriedly spit into the nearest wastebasket, and wiped his mouth. He forced himself to look at his father, preparing himself for the constant disappointment the man always wore on his face, but was instead met with a slightly worried one; an expression he hadn't seen on John's face in quite awhile. Hell, _years_.

"I think I can handle this one on my own," John declared, staring at the twenty-three year old with a narrowed brow as he sat down at the table.

The words made Dean sit up straighter, a pleading look crossing his slightly fever-lit eyes.

_He doesn't need you anymore...that's not concern in his eyes for you, that's concern for himself...you're weak, and just getting weaker...he'll leave and won't be back..._

The thoughts raced endlessly through his exhausted brain, forcing him to push them away, and attempt to speak. "I'm fine, sir. Really," Dean said, though he felt far from it. An ache was painstakingly making its way across his forehead, and down throughout his sinuses; and the back of his throat was starting to feel raw and scratchy from all the coughing. It didn't help that every time he breathed, it felt as though he was going to start coughing all over again.

John sent an annoyed glare his way, disbelief still written clearly across his face as he pulled a Styrofoam container from the plastic bag. "You've got one chance, Dean," he said sternly, and even though he knew the kid couldn't hear him, he made sure he could read the expression on his face. "If you screw up, then you're off the case. You got it?"

Dean breathed a careful sigh of relief and nodded in understanding. "So when do we check out the house? Tonight?" He tried to look as hopeful as possible, but judging from the look on his father's face, he was probably coming across as desperate.

"At 08:00 hours. I've already spoken to the owner and that's when he's agreed to meet with us," the older hunter replied, digging into his food. He paused when he realized he was the only one eating. "You gonna let it get cold or what?" he asked, pushing the bag towards his son.

Dean looked up from the open file, his eyes immediately shooting to John's lips, realizing he'd missed something.

John could feel the anger start to simmer when he saw the confused look on Dean's face. "Are you gonna eat or did I just waste five dollars trying to feed your ungrateful ass?"

The twenty-three year old could feel something stir in his chest at the anger that was starting to radiate off his father, and this time it had nothing to do with his cold. He quickly pulled the container over, and opened it, though the food that sat inside looked anything but appetizing. He swallowed hard, trying to force down the nausea that was creeping up his throat, but as he continued to stare at the greasy mess that was his meal, the task became harder and harder.

"I'm...," Dean paused, almost afraid to finish his sentence. "I'm not really hungry," he said, easing the container away from himself, and staring back down at the contents of the folder. It only took three seconds to feel an iron grip on his wrist. He jerked his head up, feverish green eyes staring at the man who called himself his father.

"Money isn't exactly easy to come by, Dean, so I suggest you eat that or you'll be fending for yourself for the next week." The man spoke through gritted teeth, making it even harder for the younger hunter to know exactly what he was saying.

Dean watched his father's lips stop moving, then let his gaze trail back to the food that was getting colder by the minute. He swallowed down the awful taste in his mouth again, trying not to wince when his father's grip grew tighter. "I'm just not hungry, Dad. I'm sorry," the whispered words left the younger hunter's lips, his sore, scratchy throat making his voice come out in a higher pitch than normal. He felt John's grip immediately disappear, but he still steadied himself for the impending storm. He knew better than to expect anything less. He was upsetting his father again, but this time he just couldn't help it.

He waited a few seconds more, expecting some type of force to hit him in the face, but nothing ever came. He wondered, before he let himself attempt to make eye contact with his father, if this wasn't some trick or game; make him feel safe momentarily, then strike when he was truly not expecting it, but as he let his eyes rise to meet John's, he saw that the man was no longer looking at him. Instead, the older hunter had put all his concentration into eating, and was ignoring the younger hunter.

Dean quickly swallowed down the lump that had formed in his throat (he had no idea where it had come from), and continued studying the micro-film printed pages in front of him, inwardly hating the fact that his father had went into his own version of the silent treatment. He wasn't sure what was worse: the man treating him as though he was just short of being invisible but still managed to somehow get in his way and under his skin; or treating him like he was his shadow, something that he walked on, never spoke to, and completely disregarded as being anything close to relevant.

Less than five minutes later, he felt the table shake slightly and the vibration from the other chair sliding across the floor, indicating that the older hunter had gotten up. Without another word directed towards Dean, the younger hunter watched his father toss his trash into the nearby wastebasket, double check the salt lines in the room, and then, head over to his bed, all without so much as a "goodnight."

Dean took one last look at the still full container of food that was meant for him before dumping it as well. He rose quietly and carefully, shrugging off his jacket and boots, and slid under the covers on his bed. He made sure to keep the hoodie on, zipping it up further almost to his chin. He let one last glance stray to John's bed, but the older man hadn't seen it; he was lying on his side facing the other way.

Dean let out what he hoped was a silent sigh, and pulled the hoodie tighter around himself, drifting off to a restless sleep, while thoughts about his dad and Sam both ignoring him simultaneously raced around his mind.

**A/N: I just want to thank all of you that have reviewed, and put me on your fav and alert lists. I can't say enough how much I appreciate it, and even though it's taking me forever to update this story, I still intend to finish it. Thank you all again! :) **


	12. No Quarter

**The Illusionist**

**Chapter 11 : No Quarter **

He felt even worse than he did the day before. His throat was sorer, and his sinuses were giving him hell. He knew he probably looked like shit even after he had showered and cleaned up, but Dean didn't really care. The most important thing was getting the job done, and proving to his still non-responsive father that he was fully capable.

The silent treatment continued all the way to the meeting of the current owner's house who was seeking their help.

It took less than twenty minutes to get from their motel to the home, a quaint two-story structure situated at the end of a dead end street. There were a few kids bicycles and some toys scattered at the far end of the yard and pathway leading up to the sky-blue color sided house. The door opened before John could even knock.

A shorter, balding man, around 5'5" or 5'6" stood before them, an eager hand outstretched to shake theirs. Dean could see the dark circles under the man's eyes, and the lines of sleeplessness that surrounded them. He'd seen that look a hundred times in his short life, the look of frustrated helplessness that betrayed most of the haunted victims' faces; the expression of utter desperation and hope, because hunters were normally the last form of help people turned to. They usually tried priests and psychics and mediums first, and when all else failed, someone like John or Bobby got the call.

"I'm Jerry, Jerry Panowski," he said, his kind but weary eyes meeting Dean's. "It's nice to meet the both of you."

Dean nodded a hello, and tried to force a polite smile on his pale visage, but he was unsure if managed it or not. It was hard to tell by the anxious expression the other man still wore.

"Nice to meet you as well, Mr. Panowski-" John started.

"Please, call me Jerry, and come in," he insisted, opening the door wider and ushering them both inside. "Have a seat, please," the man offered, gesturing towards his living room. It wasn't overly large or grandiose, but looked comfortable at the very least.

Dean followed John's lead and sat down on the slightly worn navy blue couch that was near the doorway. He watched Jerry take a seat across from them in a matching recliner chair, the man's hands unfolding and folding nervously as John began to speak.

"So, it sounds like you're dealing with a restless spirit here, Jerry; a poltergeist," John began. "Why don't you tell us a little bit about what's been going on?"

Dean saw the man's shoulders relax slightly in relief, and his lips start moving.

"Well, my family and I moved in two months ago. Things were alright at first, hell, everything seemed perfect," Jerry started, his eyes leaving them momentarily and getting lost in the story he was about to tell. "But after the first two weeks, we started hearing strange noises late at night. It would sound like someone was banging on all the pots and pans in the kitchen, and as soon as me or my wife would come down to check on it, it would stop; but as soon as we made it back upstairs and into bed, it would start all over again." He paused to let out a breath. "Pretty soon, things started happening at all times of the day. I'd be at work, and one of my children would call me sounding scared half to death telling me that the lights were flickering on and off, or all the appliances had come on all at once, and then go off, over and over again.

We called our priest from the local parish, and he came and blessed the house. Everything was okay for a few days after, but it didn't take long before it all started right back up again. My wife's cousin heard about what was happening, and mentioned a man named Caleb who had helped him out before, and he referred us to you."

"Well, Jerry, it sounds like you've had a rough time," John stated, sending his best reassuring smile at the man. "But I'm fairly positive my son and I can take of it. Give us a day to get prepared, and by tomorrow night, your house should be spirit free."

Dean could tell by the expression on Jerry's face that whatever John was saying to him was having a comforting effect. Dean's brow narrowed a bit though, because he knew his father had purposely sat in such a way that he wouldn't be able to read his lips. He tried positioning himself turned more towards his father, only to catch the tale end of what the older man was saying.

"...yes, I've got another son as well. The family business wasn't exactly his thing though. He's at Stanford right now. Bright kid. Got there on a full scholarship."

Dean didn't even look to Jerry to see what the man was saying; he was too in shock at the words that had just come out of his father's mouth.

"Yeah, I'm very proud of him. I see..."

Dean tuned out after that, unable to push away the pang of jealousy and hurt that struck him straight in the chest. His father was actually bragging about his little brother, when any other time, the man would fly off the handle just at the mention of the youngest Winchester's name. He tried to push away the feelings along with the cough that was threatening to erupt out of his throat at any minute, but he couldn't. He just couldn't.

Before he could catch himself, he was rising to his feet, quickly shoving a hand in front of his mouth as the coughing fit came full force from his lungs. It took a whole minute for it to subside, and by that time, John's ironclad grip was already on his shoulder, digging into his collarbone in a fake gesture of concern.

He clenched his jaw before putting on his best apologetic face, and turned towards a worried looking Jerry.

"Are you alright, son?" the man asked, genuine care for the young hunter's well being etched into his brow.

"I'm sorry," Dean replied, feeling heat rush to his cheeks as he tried to come up with some lie about the coughing fit. The last thing the poor guy needed to see was someone deaf _and_ ill trying to help rid his house of a spirit.

"Don't be sorry. If you're not up for doing this, I don't want to-"

John quickly cut the man off. "It's alright, Jerry. No need for you to worry. He gets allergies sometimes is all. He just needs to take one of his anti-histamines and he'll be just fine. Won't you, Dean?" his father asked, an overly polite grin on his face as his hand only gripped his son's shoulder even harder.

Dean forced himself to choke out an answer, even though he could feel the phlegm coating the back of his throat. "I'll be fine, sir. Scout's honor," he said as jokingly as possible, holding up two shaking fingers. He felt John's grip dig in further (if that were at all possible), and decided to keep his mouth shut for the remainder of their time there.

"Do you mind if we take a quick look around the place?" John asked, his free hand motioning towards the rest of the house.

"Oh, sure, sure," Jerry nodded compliantly. "Please, go right ahead."

"One quick question before we do. Which part of the house does the activity seem most centered in?" the older hunter asked, slowly easing his hand off of Dean's shoulder.

"In two places, actually. In the kitchen, and my son's bedroom. It's the first door upstairs on your right. Oh, excuse me," he said, retrieving a ringing cellphone from his pants pocket. "I'll be just be a minute."

"Take your time. We're gonna have a look upstairs," John said with a lowered voice.

Jerry gave him a silent nod as he went into another room to take his call.

Less than five seconds later, Dean felt his father's hand on his shoulder again, and it took all that he had in him not to whimper at the pain. John knew his fair share about pressure points, and he'd made sure to teach his sons a thing or two about them as well. Dean hated the fact that the man liked to do a physical demonstration every now and then. He clenched his jaw tightly as he felt John guide him to the staircase, the older hunter only releasing his grip as they made their ascent up the stairs.

_What is wrong with you? Can't you do anything right? He told you not to screw up, and what's the first damn thing you do?_

His thoughts were cut short as John shoved him into Jerry's son's room. He stumbled slightly, but regained his balance in time for his father to grab a hold of his jacket and slam him up against the nearest wall. Pain radiated throughout his shoulder where his father's hand had been just minutes before.

"What in the hell is wrong with you, Dean?" John spat out, though the younger hunter could tell by the constricted way in which his father was speaking that he was trying to do it as quietly but as angrily as possible. Before Dean had a chance to answer, John slammed him against the wall again, even harder than before. "I told you that you had one chance," he reiterated, pausing to shove an imposing index finger in his son's face. "_One_ damned chance to do this right or you'd be off the case, and what's the first thing you do?" He stopped speaking, thus forcing Dean to wonder if he actually was expecting an answer back, or if this was just another one of his rhetorical questions. His lips started moving again, giving Dean the signal to keep his shut for the moment. "You nearly hack out a damned lung on this guy's living room floor! Now get your shit together, or I'll make sure you won't be physically able to leave that motel room. You got it?"

Dean nodded in silent agreement at the older man's words, and was soundlessly thankful when his father finally let go of him. But his relief didn't last long. Within seconds, the twin bed that had been still just seconds before started to vibrate and shake violently against the wall, sending the perfectly creased sheets and bedspread rolling like a raging river.

Notebooks and pencils and pens started to fly off the nearby desk, heading in their direction. More objects flew off the shelves that lined the medium-sized room, a few directly hitting John. The older hunter hurriedly fought to get out of the room, Dean just a footfall behind. As soon as their boot-clad feet made it across the threshold, everything stopped, leaving quite a mess in its wake.

"Is everything alright?" Jerry asked breathlessly, having just bounded up the stairs.

John wiped the angry look off his face and exchanged it for a more neutral one before the other man could notice. "Yeah, everything's okay. Looks like the poltergeist decided to have a little fun is all." He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. "Can you have the house empty tonight instead?"

Jerry nodded eagerly. "Yes, of course. By what time?"

"Eight o'clock?" the older hunter asked, a dangerous gleam still lingering in his eyes. Even though Jerry didn't notice it, Dean had. He immediately stilled, making sure to keep his lips sealed, and his coughs to a minimum.

"I can do that." The man was silent for a moment, unsure of what to say. Dean thought he looked near tears, but the younger hunter didn't laugh nor smile, just watched. "I can't-I can't thank you all enough. I really do appreciate this. I really do."

"It's no problem, Jerry," John replied. "After tonight, you won't have anything to worry about."

Dean stared at his father for a long moment.

He hoped he was right.

**A/N : Thanks again for all the reviews, and alerts, and faves. I appreciate it! :D Hopefully I'll have another chapter up soon. I'm trying to write at least a page or two each day, so we'll see. Thanks again everyone! :)**


	13. The Good Soldier

**The Illusionist**

**Chapter 12 : The Good Soldier**

Dean stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, his green eyes haunted by the dark shadows that were cast underneath them. He slowly let his gaze travel to his shoulder, and he forced himself to peel back all three layers of clothing to unearth the hand-shaped bruise that lay underneath. Even in the dim light, it stood out starkly against the contrast of his pale skin. He bit his bottom lip, stifling any noise he knew he was capable of making, and slowly slid the cotton materials back into place. He took a deep breath, but almost lost it when his father barged in.

"What the hell are you doing?" John asked, forehead creased in anger.

"Getting ready," Dean mumbled. "Sir," he added quickly. There was no fear in his eyes, but he knew better than to answer his father without calling him sir. Especially right now.

"For what? A date?" the older hunter taunted, dark eyes glowering. He cut his son off before he could even open his mouth to apologize. "It's time to go so come on," he said, pointing towards the door.

Dean stared at him for a moment, but not too long. He complied with his father's command and exited the bathroom, grabbing the gear they needed for the hunt. He went outside without another word and got in the car, tossing the bag into the backseat.

Drops of rain started to pelt the Impala's windshield as John got in the car, slamming the door hard enough that the entire vehicle shook.

Dean withdrew a little further into his seat, trying desperately to ignore the tingling in the back of his throat. He quickly covered his mouth just in case. After a few minutes, it went away, but he knew it would just come back again.

_Hopefully not while we're trying to get rid of this thing..._

His gaze traveled from outside the window to John. He studied the man for a moment, the words he read on the man's lips earlier racing around in his head.

"_I've got another son as well. The family business wasn't exactly his thing though. He's at Stanford right now. Bright kid. Got there on a full scholarship...yeah, I'm very proud of him..."_

He couldn't help but feel hurt again by the words. And in a way, he thought maybe his father had said them solely for just that purpose, but he could tell by the look in the man's eyes that he had meant every word. Dean wished that just once—just once—the older hunter would say that about him. But he knew better. It wasn't going to happen. Dean had done something unforgivable, apparently. He just wished he knew what it was.

His attention was drawn back to the world outside the Impala's window, the rain starting to come down even harder. The streets were mostly dark and quiet, all the normal people in their homes after a hard day's work, their normal children back home from school and playing their video games and reading their comic books.

They weren't getting ready to rid the world of a ten-year-old's lost spirit that had stayed on this plane far too much longer than it should have.

After a few more minutes, they arrived at the house. The porch light was on, and as Jerry had promised them earlier, left a key under the welcome mat so they could get in. John grabbed it, and let them inside.

Dean could feel it as soon as he stepped through the door, something was most definitely amiss. The hair on the back of his neck and arms was suddenly on end, and he didn't like the feeling of dread that was slowly creeping over him. Trying desperately to push it away, he followed his father into the living room and laid their gear on the couch.

He went to open the bag and start removing their things when he sent a glance towards his father whose lips were currently moving. Dean attempted to pick up on what the man was saying, but he'd missed so much of it already that he didn't have a clue. Sometimes, he thought, that John must've forgot he couldn't hear.

Dean stared at the older hunter, hoping he'd repeat himself, but the other man's lips had already stopped moving.

_Shit, I hope I didn't miss anything important..._

He continued to take everything out of the pack until it was almost empty, only stopping when he felt John's hand gripping his hair and pulling his head up to face John's.

"You don't pay attention to a damned thing I say, do you?" the seasoned hunter shouted, his dark eyes glimmering dangerously in the soft light. "I told you not to take those out yet, you idiot!"

As John yelled the last word, the lights started to flicker. Faintly at first, then the pulse growing stronger and stronger until Dean was sure he could feel the vibration from the electricity running over his body. Within seconds, the house was cast in complete darkness.

Dean's eyes widened a bit in reflex as he tried to adjust to the light-less home. It took a minute or two before he was finally able to see his father, and the lamp that was headed his way. Dean quickly pushed him out of its path. It flew over their heads and hit the wall, breaking into pieces.

"Dammit, Dean, a little warning first, huh?" his father exploded, eyes burning into his son's who was only trying to save him.

"Sor-" Dean couldn't get the apology out fast enough before the couch and the rest of the nearby furniture started to shake violently, so much so that it looked more like an earthquake was happening instead of a haunting.

He saw John's eyes narrow in anger, and for a moment, he wasn't sure if it was directed towards him or the spirit. He knew it was the spirit when John picked up one of their books of incantations and a flashlight and started shouting Latin at the top of his lungs, the veins bulging throughout his neck.

Dean took that as a cue to grab the hex bags they had made earlier. They had to be placed in the room where the child had been killed, and as he watched picture frames and other objects fly past him and his father's heads, he knew it wasn't going to be easy getting there.

After a bit of ducking and running, they made it upstairs to Jerry's son's room. Everything stilled for a moment, and John stopped shouting. He shut the book and shined the flashlight he was holding in the other hand at Dean to get his attention.

"You get the left side, I'll get the right. Understand?"

Dean nodded, and tossed two of the bags to his father. He made it three steps before the bed began to shake wildly, even worse than it had earlier in the day. Posters of hot rods and other classic cars flew off the walls, fluttering around like they were alive. Books and papers scattered across the room, littering the floor and whooshing about. Both men fought through the mess, each attacking their designated corners.

Dean managed to hack into the southwest corner with a small hatchet they'd managed to scrounge up out of the Impala's trunk, plaster and spruce splintering underneath his fingertips, and a hole appearing as he continued to chop into the wood. He made the opening just large enough to stick the hex bag in, then moved onto the next corner. The younger hunter immediately made his way to the next spot, not liking the chill that was beginning to ease into the room. Gritting his teeth, he made another hole and stuffed the bag inside, a breath of relief escaping his lips as the room stilled. He turned to face his father, an almost smile starting to turn up the corners of his lips when he realized that their work was not completely done. The ghost of a smile disappeared, his green eyes widening at the sight before him.

John was frozen near the northwest corner, a small orb hovering not more than five inches from his face. His brow was furrowed deeper than ever before, red hot anger painted all across his visage, a single hex bag still clenched in his right hand. His dark eyes were focused on the small white light that was levitating before him, the corners of his mouth turned downward in a hard frown.

Dean watched with horror in his eyes, feet still rooted to the hardwood floor. He kept telling his body to move, to go over there and snap his father out of it, but he was temporarily stuck in place. He watched his father's mouth move, and could see that the man's jaw was clenched tightly, anger complacent along the lines in his forehead. The older hunter's hands were trembling at his sides, his right hand clutching the hex bag so tightly now that his knuckles were almost as white as the visiting orb.

"Dad!" Dean finally managed to make his mouth open and sound come out. He hoped at least.

When it looked like his father hadn't even heard him, he tried again, silently praying that he'd made his voice louder that time.

He felt his chest tighten when John continued to be still, not even acknowledging his presence. The older man's mouth was still moving, but Dean couldn't understand a word he was saying due to their positions. He was faced towards John's side, which made it impossible to make out anything. He cursed inwardly, hating the fact that he couldn't hear what was going on.

_If only Sammy were here now..._

He knew now was not the time for a pity party; it was time for action. Forcing his body to remove itself from the glued to the floor position it was in, he pushed himself forward, managing to get to his father just in time to take the blow that was meant for the older man. The force sent him flying back into the wall, pain immediately shooting throughout his body. It didn't help matters much that all the breath he'd been holding in his lungs had been knocked out of them by the blow. He struggled to take in air as he lifted his head, thankful he'd done something right when he saw that his father had been given the chance to stuff the last hex bag into the remaining corner.

The room stilled completely and the lights came back on; the orb was gone, banished from their sight.

Dean slowly pulled himself up, knowing there was sure to be a bruise the size of Texas on his back when morning came, but that didn't matter right now. He wanted to make sure his father was okay. His gaze shifted from the empty room that stood before him to the corner where his father was still standing, motionless. Normally, the older hunter was ready to go and pack up after a successful hunt, eager to get on to the next, but this time, something was different.

"Dad?" Dean offered up his quiet voice to the eerily silent man. When he received no response, he took the few remaining steps to get to his father, laying a gentle hand on the older man's shoulder. To his surprise, John blanched, his intense gaze quickly meeting his son's. "You alright?" the twenty-three year old queried, pulling his hand back away from his father, not liking the reaction he received from him.

John remained quiet as though he were studying the young man that stood before him, who was completely and utterly confused.

"Dad, are you hurt?" Dean asked, panic starting to rise in his chest. He'd never seen the man act so oddly before, and now he wondered more than ever what words his father had exchanged with the entity that they'd just banished.

John stared at him a moment longer before he became aware again, his expression returning to its normal hardened image.

"Grab the gear and let's get going," he said, turning around and walking out of the room as though nothing had happened.

Dean stared at him in disbelief, unmoving. When John realized this, he stopped and turned around. "I said grab the gear and let's get going. Now that's an order!" he shouted, though Dean could still sense something off-putting about the man. "Don't make me say it again, Dean."

Dean let his gaze stay on John for a moment longer before complying, still trying to comprehend the night's events in his rattled brain. He glanced at the man again while retrieving their things; the older hunter was speaking on his cell phone, presumably to Jerry to let him know the house was safe to come back to, albeit with a mess to clean up and some holes to patch.

The younger hunter went back to his mission of picking up their gear, careful not to step on any of the debris that was scattered across the floor. The hatchet he'd used was still laying near the corner where he'd dropped it, a yellowed piece of paper sitting underneath of it. He bent down to pick it up, ready to leave the paper where it was at until he glanced at the date.

_September 14, 1991_

He froze for a moment, brow narrowing in curiosity. He reluctantly reached down and picked it up, eyes scanning over the words.

_He hit me again today. Worse than all the times before. My stomach really hurts, and I think I might puke again soon. I wish mom were still here, but dad says she's never coming back and I need to deal with it. I miss her a lot. Great, it sounds like he's coming back. Wonder what I've done now. I don't know how much longer I can take this..._

Dean's eyes were glazed over by the time he was done reading. He felt the tears threatening to spill over onto his gaunt cheeks, and he tried to blink them back, but a few escaped anyway, falling down onto the weathered piece of paper. He quickly wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and stood up, nearly jumping out of his skin when he realized his father was standing behind him. He went to apologize, but John cut him off.

"Let's go."

Dean nodded, heart still in his throat as he followed his father out the doorway, surprised that the man hadn't yelled or physically removed him from the room, or asked him what the hell he was doing. They went down the stairs; John heading for the door, and Dean to the living room. He grabbed their bag and tossed their things in it, then repeated John's actions and headed out of the house.

By the time he got to the Impala, John already had the engine running and ready to go. Dean got in and carefully shut the door, sending a glance towards the house as they drove off. His eyes widened as he looked to the upstairs window of the room they had just been in minutes before. A little boy's face stared at him solemnly, eyes haunted and desolate. Within seconds, the image was gone, the house empty once more.

Dean stared ahead through the windshield, a light rain falling onto the glass. For the first time in his hunting career, he wondered if they had done the right thing. Then, he thought, maybe it was a good thing his little brother had left. He didn't want Sam to ever feel as guilty as he did right now.

Not ever.

Maybe it would be best to let him be; let him enjoy his life, Dean thought. And that's exactly what he decided to do. Leave his little brother be, for the time being.

**A/N : Thank you all again so, so much for the kind reviews, and all the faves and alerts and everything! :D I appreciate that you all are sticking with the story, and I hope you continue to do so. More to come soon :)**


	14. Your Time Is Gonna Come

**The Illusionist**

**Chapter 13 : Your Time Is Gonna Come**

Sweat was pouring down his forehead, falling to the ground below. His sneakers pounded on the pavement in a rhythmic pattern, as they had been for the past eight miles. He kept telling himself that he was going to stop, but he just kept going even though his legs were starting to burn and his chest beginning to ache. It had been chilly when he first started out, and it probably still was, but he was too hot to notice. Dean wiped his forehead with the back of his hoodie sleeve, it slipping up just enough for him to see his watch as he brought it back down. _Shit,_ he thought. _He said to be back a half hour ago!_

He picked up his pace, and started the trek back to the motel. Light rain began to fall when he was within a mile of his destination. It felt good at first, cooling his overheated body, but the further he went, the harder it fell, and the more it began to sting.

He was soaked by the time he made it back to the motel, some dingy little place ten miles outside of Omaha in a little town called Ralston. They'd gotten a call from Caleb three days before while they were in Wyoming, just after finishing off a wendigo near Cheyenne. John had gotten more banged up than the younger hunter that time, and Dean insisted that they stay for a little while to recuperate, but his father declared that there were people to be saved and not enough time to do it, so they took off for Nebraska that night.

John was a bit shady on the details thus far, only letting Dean know that a few people had been murdered by close relatives, and left it at that. Dean had halfheartedly accepted it, but decided he wouldn't push for anymore. Yet. Not from his father anyway. If anything, he'd find a way to contact Caleb. If John found out, he'd probably be pissed, but Dean didn't care. If his actions wound up saving someone in the end, that's all that mattered.

He fished the motel key out of his hoodie pocket and unlocked the door, prepared for a thunderstorm of words from his father, but as he looked around the room, he saw that it wasn't going to come. John was asleep on his designated bed, his features twisted into a pained grimace. Dean frowned as he approached the foot of the bed; his father was soaked with sweat as well, and murmuring something in his sleep.

Concerned green eyes watched as the older man's lips continued to move rapidly, though Dean couldn't make out a damned thing he was saying.

The nightmares had been occurring for quite some time, Dean knew. It had been almost two years since they'd gotten rid of the poltergeist back in Pennsylvania, and John hadn't acted the same ever since. He'd been even more distant, which Dean didn't think was humanly possible; and he still got angry, though the bruises didn't come as frequent as before. Then, there were the hunts that he wouldn't allow Dean to be apart of. He made the younger hunter promise to stay in the motel until he came back, and sometimes, it would be weeks before he returned.

Dean had thought about leaving those times the man would stay gone for so long, but he knew there was no where he could go, nothing he could really do about it. He didn't think he could make it on his own. He was deaf, and that alone would make it hard to get a normal job. Eventually, his father would come back, and he'd forget those thoughts, push them to the back of his mind and lock them away for safe keeping. That was the place were he kept Sam at too. He'd kept the promise he made to himself, and hadn't contacted Sam since. He knew that his younger brother was probably better off that way. He hoped so, at least.

Shaking away his thoughts, he forced himself to focus on his tossing and turning father, contemplating whether or not he should wake the man. He'd done so a few times before to mixed results. Biting his bottom lip, he reached out slowly and shook the man ever so slightly. Surprisingly, John didn't stir, but his lips did stop moving. Dean figured that was enough for now, and that maybe his touch had actually calmed the man for once instead of setting him off.

_Yeah, right._

He stared at his father for a minute longer, and when he saw that the man was staying still, he made his way over to his own bed and grabbed some fresh clothes from his duffel. He went into the bathroom, and closed the door behind him, making sure to do it as softly as possible. He shrugged out of his wet clothes, and got into the shower, letting out a sigh as the hot water sprayed his back. The pale skin was painted with bruises of various colors; blues, purples, and yellows decorated his flesh. There were scratches thrown in here and there, none too deep, but some more than just a little superficial, enough that they burned when the water hit them.

He washed his newly trimmed hair, a barely there wince pulling at his features as some of the shampoo got into the deeper gouges on his scabbed knuckles. He quickly rinsed it off and finished. He turned the water off, and got out, wrapping a towel around his thin waist.

Dean didn't chance a look in the mirror too often anymore, but the reflective glass beckoned for his attention. His brow narrowed a bit as he took in the man that stared back at him. He hardly recognized himself sometimes, the way he looked now.

His skin was mostly pale with the exception of his face on a good day. It seemed like there was never any sun were they went, and half the time, they were awake at night with only the moon to keep them company. His hair had darkened a little from lack of sun, it missing most of the natural highlights it used to contain. The biggest difference was his shrunken frame. He wasn't starving, not quite; but he'd lost a good twenty plus pounds since his little brother had left. Food just wasn't a priority. He still ate, just not as much as he used to. More or less, he consumed just enough to get by.

Then, there were the scars, marking his body like tattoos. Some old that were barely noticeable, some that never healed properly, and then, the ones that weren't quite there yet but were eventually going to be.

He clenched his jaw and made himself look away. He got dressed, and retrieved his dirty clothes from the floor. He wanted to put the hoodie back on, but he knew it had to be washed first. It smelled pretty rank.

Figuring it would probably be a good idea to do some laundry (and God knows his father wasn't going to do it), he tossed their dirty clothes into a trash bag, and left a note on John's nightstand. Just in case.

He pulled on his jacket and heaved the fairly heavy bag over his shoulder. He recalled there was a laundromat about two blocks away, and headed for it, careful to lightly tug the door closed behind him. Luckily, it had stopped raining while he was in the shower, but the sky was still gray and bleary.

The town looked the same as any other small town they'd been in; gas stations and bars the main hangouts, with a fast food joint somewhere in between. The same nosy people watching him as he walked along, wondering who he was and what exactly he was doing in their town. Dean had become an expert at ignoring people if he so wished, so the stares and odd glances didn't bother him much anymore. He was used to it. He mostly kept to himself when he wasn't with his father, and sometimes, there was the occasional woman that wasn't bothered by his deafness. But from the looks of this place, he thought, there probably weren't any decent company keepers around.

Within a few minutes, he was at the laundromat. There were a few people in there; a woman in her mid-thirties and a young boy watching a beat up old TV with an antennae still attached to it, an older man who Dean guessed either just became a widower or had dementia because he looked confused just trying to operate one of the washers, and finally, a trio of middle-aged women gossiping near the front door. He didn't miss the looks they sent his way, just sent a glance back at them, and went over to one of the washing machines. He loaded the clothes in, filled the coin collector with his change, and made sure to dump some of the cheap detergent in before it started its cycle.

He grabbed a Mountain Dew from the soda machine, and took a seat on one of the nearby benches, the women near the door catching his attention once more. Thankfully for him, they were back to gossiping, their lips moving so fast he could hardly keep up with what they were saying.

"I still can't believe Dave did that. It just seems sort of strange, doesn't it? He was always so nice," one of the women said while nervously tugging at a strand of freshly dyed blonde hair.

Her words peaked Dean's interest, and for once, he was thankful he could read lips. His gaze traveled to the next woman that spoke, and it was easy to see that she was probably the town's lead beholder of rumors. She had bright red hair, probably colored less than a day or two before, that was held up in a ponytail by some cheap piece of costume jewelry. He could see the way she tried to hide her smile when she spoke, almost as though she were secretly delighted by the weird shit that was going on.

"He might have been nice, but I heard he was cheating on her with Mary who lives over on Church St. You know, the one who just got a _divorce_..." He could see the way she emphasized the last word as though it were something bad and unholy. Dean couldn't help but to smirk at that. His eyes drifted to the blonde woman again, though something in the fake surprised look she was wearing on her overly made-up face caught his attention. He was pretty good at reading people, and judging from the expression on her visage and the way her skin was now slightly flushed, he figured she was probably the one this Dave guy was cheating on his wife with. He took another sip of soda, and let his eyes listen some more.

"Well, love causes you to do some crazy things, but killing your wife? I don't know...Lorena wasn't exactly perfect, but she didn't deserve to have _that_ happen to her. And then what about Ken and his mother?" the third woman finally joined in the conversation. She leaned closer to the other two, causing her dark hair to fall slightly in her face as she attempted to keep her voice down. "I heard he stabbed her fifty-seven times. Can you believe that? That poor woman..."

Dean's brow lowered, his heart beginning to beat faster. This didn't sound good at all, not in the least, he thought. Something was definitely going on in this town, and to him, it sounded like possession. His mind began to race, and eventually two and two got put together. Now he understood why his father wouldn't tell him anything.

_What if this is somehow connected to Mom? Could it be a...demon?_

He shot up from the chair, ready to bolt back to the motel room until he remembered the reason why he was there in the first place.

_Stupid clothes..._

He quickly checked the washer, and realized it had stopped. Hurriedly, he tossed the freshly cleaned clothing into a nearby dryer and put in a few quarters. He chewed at his bottom lip, wondering what was the smarter thing to do; stay there and try to listen in on more of the womens' conversation, or go back to the motel and wake John. He thought about it a moment, and decided to stay for the time being. Maybe they'd have something else useful to say.

SPNSPNSPN

By the time he made it back to the motel, he'd come to the conclusion that there was most definitely some freaky shit going on in that town. He stayed until the clothes were dry, and then some. It turned out that one of the women, the redhead, was the wife of the town's sheriff, and according to her, the murders had started about a month before. Six people had been killed so far, all by their closest kin, and in despicable ways. He grimaced as he thought about the description she gave about how one of the victims had been murdered. Not pretty. Not pretty indeed.

He looked up as he entered the room, expecting to see his father up and ready, but instead, he was met with an empty room. His gaze traveled to the bathroom, but it was clear he was the only one there. He cursed inwardly, and backtracked to the window, his green eyes scanning the parking lot and seeing no sign of the Impala.

_Sonuvabitch!_

Dean clenched his jaw in anger, the action visible through his skin. He began to pace the room, hating the fact that his father was trying to keep him from this hunt. He wasn't incompetent, and he was damned good at what he did. He knew that much; he just couldn't understand why his dad didn't.

Sighing, he sat down at the motel table, running a frustrated hand through his short hair. He was about to pull his phone out of his pocket, and send his father a text when his green eyes met the closed journal at the opposite end of the table. After a moment's hesitation, he reached over and slid the leather bound book in front of him, carefully flipping through the pages.

He remembered the blonde woman saying something about this happening before, almost sixteen years previous. He quickly ran through the dates, wondering if his father had been there then. His heart almost skipped a beat when he came across an entry dated September 16, 1989; and as he began to read through it, it broke, into a million tiny little pieces.

**A/N : Thank you all again for your kind reviews. They truly make my day. :) More to come soon... ;)**


	15. Letters From the Sky

**The Illusionist**

**Chapter 14 : Letters From the Sky**

_September 16, 1989_

_I can't believe what I've done. I promised myself that I would never NEVER let it come to this, and I've gone and fucked up more than I thought was possible. Mary would never forgive me for this...I don't know if I can ever forgive myself for this. Sitting here, watching him while he's asleep, and when he wakes up, he won't understand why or how. And I can't tell him. He's only nine years old, how could I do this to him? To Sam? I chose between my children for God's sakes! What the hell kind of a father am I? The doctors told me that he's lucky to be alive, and I should be thankful that he's only deaf...ONLY DEAF? How the hell is he supposed to make it in this life—in the way that we live if he can't hear? I do know one thing, when I catch the bitch that did this, I will destroy every single piece of her, and she WILL wish that I would've ganked her ass that day. And I WILL find her, so help me God, I will find her. Hell will be a paradise once I'm done with her...I hope he can forgive me someday. If I can ever get myself to tell him what actually happened. I'm so sorry, Dean. I..._

Dean could feel the tears in his eyes, blurring his vision, and damn near attempting to flood down his cheeks. A surefire lump had formed in his throat, and as hard as he tried to swallow it down, it stayed put right where it was at.

He dug furiously at his eyes with the heels of his hands, feeling the salt water dampen his skin. His body was shaking, damn near trembling, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do to control it. He didn't know if it was anger, shock or pain that was doing it to him, and at the moment he could care less.

He forced himself to reread the words again, burning them into his mind like a brand across his brain. Tears began to fall on the page so he quickly slammed the journal shut, and that's when he felt the gust of air hit him. It was slight, but it was there, making contact with his skin.

Dean looked up, ever so slowly to the open motel room door, his father standing there in the doorway, face darkened by the shadows of the room. Their eyes met, bright green against dark brown, and all the younger hunter could do was stare, unsure of what to say or do.

"Why didn't you tell me?" the words finally left his lips, his gaze now on his father's mouth, waiting for an answer.

"You weren't supposed to see that," was all John could force out, still unmoving.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Dean repeated, rising from the chair, closing the distance between himself and his father.

John stayed silent as Dean came to stand less than two feet away. Normally the middle Winchester was all about personal space, but he was about to invade his father's, and at the moment, he didn't really give a damn.

"How could you keep this from me?" He was pretty sure he was getting louder every time he spoke, at least he hoped he was. His father never heard him any other time; he wanted to make sure this time he did.

"Do you honestly think you could've handled hearing that from me, Dean?" John finally said, brow creasing immediately. He didn't wait for his son to respond. Instead, he took a step closer to the young man; the two of them within mere inches of each other. "Do you honestly believe that at nine years old you could've accepted that? Well? Do you?"

"Yes!" Dean screamed, green eyes swimming with more unshed tears. "Because now I know the reason why you hate me isn't my fault! It's yours! You hate me because of something you did! After all these years, it never was my fault!" He furiously swiped at a loose tear, still determined to stand his ground.

"There was nothing I could've done! Believe me, if there was a way I would've found it! I had no other choice!" John shouted, face beginning to redden as the anger began to bubble underneath his skin.

"That's a damned lie, and you know it! There's always a choice! And it didn't have to be me or Sam! You were better than that! You were a better hunter than that!" His voice broke on the last sentence, but he couldn't help it.

"There wasn't anything I could do, Dean! She was going to kill you both! What the hell was I supposed to do? Tell her to do ahead and do it! Is that what you would've wanted?" His hands were clenched at his sides, the blood boiling in his veins.

"You could have found a way. I know you could have, but you gave up on me!" His chest was heaving now, anger and hurt—dreadful hurt—clear and present in his eyes.

"I did not give up on you!" John exclaimed, growing angrier and more agitated by the second.

"Yes you did!" Before Dean could continue, John grabbed him by the shoulders, slamming into the wall. The younger hunter's body tensed as the air was knocked out of it, but he didn't shrink away or hang his head. He stared at his father, defiant. "If you want to hit me, go ahead and hit me. At least now I know the reason."

John stared at him for long moment, the hardened expression on his face never changing. "You will never understand the level of guilt I've had to live with all these years, Dean. If I had the chance to do it all over again-"

Dean cut him off, green eyes afire. "You do have the chance. That's what we're here for, isn't it?" he asked, gaze shifting between his father's eyes and lips; he didn't want to miss anything. "You think she's here possessing all those people. Am I right?"

"Yes," John answered, stiff-lipped, hands still gripping his son's shoulders a little too tightly.

"Then what are we waiting for?" Dean threw the question out in the air, letting it sink into John's awaiting ears.

"It's too dangerous. There's no way in hell I'm letting you anywhere near that thing," his father replied with a shake of the head.

Dean's mouth quirked up a bit to one side at that. "So now you suddenly care? Or are you afraid that I'll just screw things up? Because I don't think I could do a worse job than you have!" he added, pain still evident on his visage.

John's grip tightened, eyes darkening at the remark. "I've always cared. That's why I've kept this from you for so long. I was trying to protect you."

"From what?" Dean exclaimed, hurt etched deep into his voice. "All you've done is make me feel worthless! Like I'm just the invalid son that you've been forced to take with you because no one else wants him."

John slammed him against the wall once more, but in this instance, not as hard. "I've done the best that I could. What else was I supposed to do?"

"Tell me the truth! That's what! You never accepted any lies from me or Sammy, yet you've had this one in your back pocket for the past sixteen years!" he paused, fighting back the onset of tears again. He managed to blink them away this time and continued. "If you would've told me, I would've understood, because if I was in your place, I would've put Sammy first too. I always will. But not saying a word? You made me think all these years, that it was my fault I got sick, my fault that I was deaf. I thought that if I would've done something differently, it never would've happened. Were you ever planning on saying anything to me?" Dean tilted his head to the side, searching his father's face.

John remained silent, that action being the only confirmation his son needed.

Dean nodded, his gaze shifting to the floor. He felt John's grip suddenly disappear. Curiosity getting the better of him, he looked up, only to find John on his cell phone, though the man's eyes were still locked on the younger hunter.

"Yeah, thanks, Caleb. I appreciate it. Alright, talk to you later." Dean watched his father's lips, and wondered if the man would ever know how hard and how long it took him to understand what people were saying. He wondered if he should just stop speaking, and only sign. He put the thought on the back burner for now and steeled himself, waiting for what his father had to say.

"That was Caleb—"

"I got that much," Dean stated, cutting him off. His smart-ass side was beginning to shine through and through, and he contemplated how much further he could push the older hunter.

John clenched his jaw in an effort to nullify the anger that was wrapping itself around his fists and looking for a target. "Look, Dean, this isn't just some simple salt and burn. If this is who I think it is, you've got to be prepared for anything. You got me?"

"Yes, sir." It was more of an automatic reply than anything. He was so used to speaking those words that he didn't even think twice about saying them. His emotions were still trampling his soul, but he knew that if they were going to get the bitch, he needed to focus all of his anger and concentration towards taking her down. He was far from done with John; there was still plenty more to be said, many more questions to be asked, but he let the conversation die for now. There would be time for that later, afterward. He would make sure of it.

SPNSPNSPN

_John Winchester._

That was a name she hadn't thought of in sixteen years. She smiled at that, excitement bubbling up within her, because this time, he wasn't alone. He had brought one of his sons, the one whose hearing she had taken away when he was just a child.

She watched them through the motel window as they communicated with each other, and it was clear that the younger one was having a very hard time keeping himself under control. His green eyes were clearly under duress, and she was loving every minute of it.

She laughed when she saw the older man grow frustrated and angry, trying to explain something to his son about how they were going to kill her, but she wasn't about to let that happen. She was going to have a little fun with the Winchesters, and there was no telling what was going to happen this time around.

**A/N : Thanks again so much to Imperial Dragon, babyreaper, Pictures, andthatslife, and kissacazador for your reviews for the last chapter. I really do appreciate them, and the rest of you who have faved me or put me on an alert. I hope you all are still enjoying the story. More to come soon. :)**


	16. Possession Piano version

**The Illusionist**

**Chapter 15 : Possession (Piano version)**

They'd been there for almost a week now, and were still no where closer to finding the demon than they were the first day they'd gotten there.

John's temper had gotten in the way more times than once, and even though the reason for his hatefulness was out in the open, he was still taking things out on his son. The littlest mistake would set him off, and it took all Dean had not to reciprocate his actions. The younger hunter was on a mission just as his father was, but had been more cool-headed about it, though inside, he was torn apart.

His self esteem had crawled into the gutter and decided it wasn't coming back any time soon after their latest incident. He didn't stop standing up for himself, but he didn't exactly try too hard when he did. He just accepted that John was going to be like that, at least for now. He hoped that maybe, just maybe things would be different once the demon was dead, but he knew hope only went so far. He wondered if his father still hated him for his disability, regardless of whether or not it was his fault.

For the moment, they were posing as detectives called in from Omaha to help out with the investigation. John had gotten a call from the sheriff, and had told Dean to stay put while he followed up on something. Dean had been adamant about going along, but the older hunter had ordered him to stay in the motel until he came back, and that he wouldn't be gone long. Dean had rolled his eyes, but accepted it.

That conversation had taken place three hours before, and now Dean found himself pacing the motel room, absentmindedly pulling on one of the hoodie's drawstrings. His brother's scent had worn off of it long before, but that hadn't mattered to him. He wore it almost all the time, even when John told him he looked ridiculous in it and needed to take it off. It was fairly large on him now, the sleeves hanging down to the knuckles of his hands, but he didn't care.

His gaze was on the floor, but soon traveled to the window when he saw headlights peaking through the cheap threadbare curtains. Within seconds, he was there looking out the glass, only to see the couple from next door get out of their car and disappear inside their room.

_Dammit, Dad, where are you?_

Suddenly, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He immediately retrieved it from the comfort of its denim isolation and flipped it open. He saw that it was a message from his father and quickly opened the text.

**Taking a little longer than expected. Tire blew out while on 80. Be back asap.**

Dean frowned at the words, brow creasing in worry. He promptly replied.

**R u ok? Where at on 80? I can come help.**

He waited anxiously for his father's response, glancing out the window again at the impending nightfall. A minute later, it buzzed again.

**I'm fine. Just stay where you are. Be back soon.**

Dean let out a sigh, not liking the direction of the conversation. His fingers hurriedly tapped away at the keys, pushing the SEND button when he was done.

**I can help just tell me where u r. R u close?**

He knew he was probably frustrating his father more than anything, but the last thing they both needed was for the man to be stuck out in the middle of nowhere in the dark. Too many things went bump in the night. Especially around this town.

He waited for his phone to buzz again, but it didn't. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew John wasn't going to text him back. The man was too damned stubborn and proud for his own good, he thought. Biting his bottom lip, he went back to pacing the room, the minutes ticking by at a snail's pace.

He'd been checking out the window for the man's arrival in ten minute intervals, only to come up with nothing each time.

The clock on the nightstand stated that the time was now 09:02 PM, meaning John had been gone for close to five hours now. He looked out the window again, only this time, something caught his eye. There was a little boy who couldn't have been older than five standing in the middle of the parking lot, and from what Dean could see, the kid was shaking and crying.

Dean's heart immediately began to beat faster as he focused in on the boy's shirt, a dark stain plastered across his chest. His green eyes zeroed in on the child's mouth, and even though he was at least twenty yards away, Dean could easily see that the kid was screaming for help. He quickly sprang into action without a second thought, making his way out the motel door and over to the youngster. He approached the child cautiously, slowing his pace and crouching down to the kid's height.

"Hey, buddy, what's going on?" he asked, hoping his voice wasn't too loud as it would more than likely scare the child.

The little boy sniffled and looked up at him, shaking his head. His whole body was trembling, and he looked as though he were about to suffocate on his own tears.

"It's okay, calm down, little man. What's wrong? Where's your mom or dad?" Dean tried again, double checking the child to make sure the blood wasn't coming from him. Thankfully, it wasn't.

The little boy stared at Dean a moment before shaking his head. Dean's eyes widened as the little boy lifted his shaking hands and extended both his index fingers towards each other, and twice did a quick jabbing motion. He repeated it again and again until Dean snapped out of his stupor, his brain promptly reminding him that he was also deaf and that the child was signing the word "hurt".

It had been so long since he'd come into contact with someone that was deaf; he had to remind himself that it was okay to sign.

He quickly put the tip of his thumb on his chin and extended his right index finger, bending it twice, and asked, "Who?"

The little blond haired boy stared at him for a moment and then raised his open left hand towards his face, putting his thumb on his chin, and mouthed "Mommy."

Dean nodded in understanding, then signed the word for room, his hands forming the shape of a box. He added on the word "which", his hands each forming into an A shape in front of his chest while he alternated them back and forth.

The child quickly signed the numbers 1,2, and 4, and pointed in the room's direction.

Dean nodded again, and stood up, taking the child's hand in his. He walked across the parking lot, the little boy in tow, and counted down the numbers on the rooms until he found the correct one. He stopped when he saw that the door was ajar and the room dark. He bent down to the youngster's level again and signed for him to stay there. The little boy shook his head frantically, his hand clasping onto Dean's tightly.

"Please?" he said, laying his hand flat against his chest, and moving it in a clockwise position a few times.

More tears fell from the child's eyes, but he reluctantly nodded.

Dean stood up, and carefully made his way into the near pitch-black room. His hand moved along the wall, searching for the light switch. He found it within a few seconds and flipped it on, but the room remained bathed in darkness, only a tiny bit of light coming from the parking lot lights shining at the foot of the doorway, and a few stray rays of moonlight through the window.

_Not good, Dean. Not good. _

His eyes finally adjusted to the dark after a few minutes, and he was able to see more than three feet in front of him. The room was set up the same as his and John's; two full size beds, a nightstand next to each, a box TV on a dresser centered a few feet in front of the beds, and a motel table near the window with the bathroom adjacent to the doorway. His first instinct was to check in there, but when he looked down to the floor, he saw that it wasn't necessary. A woman, presumably the little boy's mother, was laying in between the two beds, eerily still.

Her skin was pale and bloodied, her dark brown hair appearing black with the little light Dean had to work with. He could tell from where he was standing that the slight rising movement of her chest to indicate she was breathing was absent, meaning she was more than likely already dead.

He forced himself to move closer to her, careful to avoid the puddle of blood that was surrounding her body. He bent down and placed two fingers to her neck; there was no pulse beating underneath his fingertips, giving him his answer. The wound was on her mid-section, and from the looks of things, it appeared she had been stabbed multiple times.

_Poor kid..._

He looked back toward the door, and nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw the little boy standing there right behind him. The child's face was blank, all the fear and sadness that was there earlier gone.

Dean was about to tell him to get back out of the room, that he didn't need to see this when a smile slowly crept over the little boy's slender face. "Gotcha," the child grinned, his soft blue eyes suddenly turning black. Before Dean could react, a dresser drawer was crashing against his skull, sending him spiraling into more darkness.

SPNSPNSPN

John parked the Impala near the motel room, sighing as he got out. It had been a bad day, hell, a horrible day. He'd left out at around four, following up on a lead that ended up going no where; and he knew it was close to midnight now. He was dead tired, having had to walk two miles to get a new tire, then walk back, then change the damn thing on top of all that.

He pulled the motel room key from his jacket pocket and opened the door. Upon seeing the bathroom door closed and light leaking through underneath of it, he went over to the mini fridge and grabbed a beer, setting down on his bed. He opened the brown bottle and took a long sip, contemplating their next move. He was frustrated as all get out; the bitch was evasive, and one of the hardest damned things he'd ever hunted. He couldn't wait to get his hands on her; that was for damn sure.

He heard the bathroom door open a few minutes later, and Dean's quiet footsteps walk across the dirty carpet in his direction. He looked up at his son, ready to throw out a "Took you long enough in there," or "You do anything while I was gone?" but instead cut himself short; his son looked like shit. His face was pale (paler than usual), and the shadows underneath his eyes seemed even darker. "You sick or something?"

Dean sat down on his own designated bed and muttered, "Something like that."

He noticed his son was keeping the right side of his face from view, which John found particularly strange. Normally the kid was all eyes on him as soon as the older hunter came into the room, but now it looked as though he was trying to avoid his father's gaze. Something was wrong—John could feel it.

"Dean, what the hell is going on?" he spat out, his hands already reaching for his son's shoulders without a second thought. His eyes widened as the large gash on the younger hunter's face came into view. "What in the hell happened to you?" He could feel his fingers digging into his son's flesh, and the bones underneath. When he didn't get a response, he shook Dean harder, and it took almost all of his self control not to backhand the young man that sat before him. His right hand moved to the kid's chin, gripping harder than he should have, but getting his son's attention, nonetheless. "What happened, Dean?"

The younger hunter was still hesitant to speak, his green eyes focusing on the grubby beige carpet at his feet. "Some-something happened while you were gone."

"I can see that, dammit! So what was it?" John shouted, dark eyes gleaming angrily.

"It's a long story..." his son's voice trailed off, and John suddenly went cold, his hands dropping to his sides. Dean hadn't been looking at him when he'd spoken, but was answering him as though he heard every word, and his Dean couldn't hear...

Dean's gaze traveled from the now uninteresting carpet to John, the man starting to take a few steps back as he saw those eyes were not his son's.

"You see," Dean continued, a smile beginning to creep across his features, "There was this little boy outside, and he was screaming for help, you know, John, the way I used to scream for help when I was little, but you'd just ignore me and let me cry. Remember that?" Not-Dean said, head tilting slightly as he stared up at the seasoned hunter.

John took a few more steps back, his head shaking in disbelief. "How the hell did you get in here?" he exclaimed, his gaze shooting to the front door, his heart sinking as he realized the salt line had been broken.

"Well, guess that answers your question, huh, John?" Not-Dean asked sarcastically, standing to his feet. His voice finally sunk into John's consciousness, and the hunter realized that the younger man standing in front of him did not, in fact, sound like his son. Maybe what his son would sound like now if he wasn't deaf, perhaps. "It's been awhile, hasn't it, Johnny boy?" The demon grinned, and that grin was nothing like Dean's. It was his son's face, but that smile was disgustingly evil, and John detested the demon more than ever now.

_Think, Winchester! Think dammit!_

"You've done quite the job raising this one, haven't you, John? This kid can't stand himself, hates himself to the core, but would sacrifice his ass in one second for you. The amount of manipulation you've put into raising him. Bravo, John. Bravo!" Not-Dean laughed, clapping his hands in amusement.

"You've got ten seconds to get out of my son or-"

"Or what?" the demon cut him off. "You'll shoot me? Ha, now that's funny, because we both know that won't do a damned thing to me. However, your son? Gone! Kablamo!" it laughed again, and John could hear her in his son's voice. The man tried to hide the cringe that ran over his visage at the sound, but it escaped clean across it anyway.

"Aw, what's wrong, John? Bet this isn't how you imagined your day would end, huh? Na, didn't think so. Now, let's get done to business, shall we?" it asked, looking pleased with itself.

"There is no business to be done with you, bitch," the seasoned hunter sneered, the wheels already turning in his mind. He was going to be done with this demon tonight; he'd had enough.

"Oh, I think you'll change your mind pretty quick, Johnny boy," Not-Dean said as he retrieved a bowie knife from underneath one of the pillows on Dean's bed. It gleamed dangerously in the motel lighting, setting John's heart on overload.

John inwardly berated himself, knowing he should have been prepared for anything, but he wasn't, not for this.

"You've taken my son's hearing, what more could you possibly want from me?" he hissed, eyes ablaze with anger.

"Hmm...what do I want?" the demon inquired more to itself than John, holding the tip of the knife to Dean's chin. "I think I want to wear your meatsuit for a little while. Yeah, that's definitely what I want." It grinned, taking Dean's innocent and charming smile and transforming it into something despicable.

John stared at it, an incredulous expression on his face. "Me? You want me? Yeah, well I don't think so," he replied, jaw clenched in anger.

"Is that right? If you say so..." The smile was still plastered across Not-Dean's face as it jerked up his t-shirt and began to run the knife across his chest.

"Stop!" John shouted, a hand automatically reaching out towards the demon.

"Ah ah ah, not so fast," it scolded, blood trickling steadily down his son's torso. "You know," it said, a ghost of a smile still haunting its features, "I really don't have to ask for permission, but I thought it would be fun to fuck with you anyway, Johnny boy. You see, all I really have to do is this."

John watched in horror as Not-Dean's mouth opened, and a steady stream of black smoke erupted from his throat and out into the open. Before he could react, it came hurdling towards him, knocking him into oblivion.

This was definitely not how John had planned for this day to end.

**A/N : Big thanks to Imperial Dragon, Wataru Kisugi, Glades of Grey, babyreaper, PrettyGirlyFan, CaitieAngel, 2 People, kissacazador, and the rest of you who have faved me or put me on a list. I GREATLY appreciate it! :D Hope you enjoyed this installment. More to come soon...;)**


	17. My Body is a Cage

**The Illusionist**

**Chapter 16 : My Body Is a Cage**

Dean was surrounded by blackness, a cold sensation wrapped around his entire body, and he felt as though he couldn't breathe. He felt alone—so terribly alone—like no one else existed but him, and that was barely, just barely. He was trying his damnedest to propel himself away from this place, but it clung to him, not wanting to let go. Just when he was about to give up, something—rather someone—pulled him from it.

He opened his wary eyes to see his father staring at him with a look of pure disgust and hatred. The older man's hand was gripping the short strands of Dean's hair, what he had for nails digging into the younger hunter's scalp. He was saying something, but Dean couldn't understand a word; his head was still attempting to recover from the dark place. For a moment, he was lost, but then the horrible reality of what had happened crashed over him like a fifty-foot wave. Before he could open his mouth, John pulled him up off the floor by his shoulders and threw him against the wall, enunciating every word concisely so Dean could understand.

"You could have gotten us killed, Dean! What the hell were you thinking? How many times do I have to remind you to check the salt lines? Huh?" the older man shouted, smacking his son across the face.

Dean stared at him in shock, not comprehending what was going on. The last thing he remembered, he was getting smashed in the face by a mighty powerful five year old. He shook his head, his gaze falling to the floor as he tried to recall what exactly had happened afterward, and at this point, he was drawing a blank.

One of John's strong hands left his shoulders and went straight for his chin, the red marks from earlier still present. "I gave you a direct order to stay in here, and what do you do? You wander out anyway, and nearly get yourself killed! What the hell is wrong with you, Dean?"

The younger hunter stared at his father with pleading eyes, the ache in his skull and the pain in his chest finally registering with his brain. "I'm bleeding..." he mumbled, his gaze drifting to his bloodied shirt. The next thing he knew, he was getting slammed against the wall again, but this time it was hard enough to leave a crack in the plaster. He immediately coughed, his lungs having to reposition themselves in his ribcage after the jolt his father had just given him.

"You don't remember anything, do you?" John questioned him, brow narrowing furiously.

Dean shook his head in response, not liking how this conversation was going. Clearly, he'd done something truly fucked up, but for the life him, he couldn't recall a damned thing.

"You were possessed, Dean!" John shouted, dark eyes ablaze with anger.

The younger hunter stared at his father with horror and disbelief in his eyes. He shook his head, not wanting to accept the words that were coming from John's lips. "There's no way..."

"You let her trick you! How could you be so stupid, Dean?" he spat, not so nicely knocking a fist on the top of his son's head. Dean flinched away, but John held him firmly in place. The older man moved his face within inches of his son's, anger seeping through every line and pore on the older hunter's visage. "You almost got us killed. You happy with yourself?"

The twenty-five year old immediately apologized, an "I'm sorry," coming from a broken yet quiet voice.

"Sorry? Sorry isn't anywhere good enough this time, Dean! You're lucky I got here when I did," John stated, bruises already forming underneath his fingertips where his hands were still gripping his son's flesh.

"You got her?" the younger hunter asked, a sliver of hope in his misery-filled eyes.

"What do you think? Of course I did!" his father shouted, fresh anger washing across his face. "I'm not some pathetic excuse that just takes up space like you, now am I?" Dean slowly shook his head. "You're damned right I'm not!" He paused, his brown eyes darkening even more, and Dean could have sworn they were black for a moment. "Get all our shit together, and put it in the car. We've got places to be."

Dean nodded, inwardly thankful when John let go of him. He rubbed his shoulder, knowing there would be bruises there before they made it to the next town. He sent a sideways glance at his father; he knew the man was strong, but the way he'd been gripping his shoulders, it felt like he was trying to crush the younger hunter.

The twenty-five year old began to gather their things, though his mind was racing. He couldn't believe he'd let his guard down, and let that thing _possess_ him like that. He felt weak, and sick, and dirty. All he wanted to do was take an extremely hot shower, and scrub off the outermost layer of his skin. He'd wash his insides out too, if it were possible.

He threw a glance over his shoulder at John, watching the man pace back and forth, cell phone in hand. He couldn't make out what he was saying, but he assumed that it was probably Caleb he was speaking to, asking for a lead for their next hunt.

A sharp pain suddenly cut across Dean's chest, reminding him that his wound had yet to be taken care of. He threw the last of their things into their respective duffel bags and set them by the door. Not even chancing a look at his father, he made his way over to the bathroom, only to be stopped when a too strong hand clamped onto his arm.

"Where do you think you're going?" John asked harshly, hitting the mute button on the phone, making sure whoever was on the other end couldn't hear him.

Dean jumped and looked at the man, confusion written upon the younger hunter's features. He'd missed whatever John had said, and judging from the expression on his father's face, he really should have been listening.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" the seasoned hunter spat, jabbing a finger hard into his son's chest.

Dean couldn't have hidden the grimace that transformed his visage into one of pain even if he'd tried. Fire raced across his chest, leaving a burning sensation in its wake. The cut had at least stopped bleeding before, but now, as he looked down at his chest, he could see a new dark spot forming. "I need to clean myself up first," he forced out. He honestly wasn't sure if his voice was working or not. When he saw John shake his head, and start to say something, he knew some kind of sound must have befallen his lips.

"We're done here. You can worry about that later. We've got a new hunt already lined up, so go get in the car."

Dean could only stare at the man. His green eyes were wider than normal, disbelief slowly crawling across his features. "It'll only take a second. At least let me run some water on it," he tried, and immediately regretted it.

John smacked him clear across the face, anger emanating in waves off the older man. "When I tell you to do something, you do it. Anything you don't understand about that?" There was impatience present in his voice, but Dean didn't need to hear to see it set in the man's features either.

"No, sir," he practically mouthed, a hand still on his chest. The cut wasn't that deep, but it stretched a good eight inches along his flesh, and it was starting to hurt like a bitch. His gaze stayed on John a moment longer before he went over to the door and picked up his bag. He bit his lip, praying that no sounds were coming from his throat. He forced himself to open the door, ignoring the white hot pain that spread across his skin. He stepped outside into the dimly lit parking lot, watching rain begin to fall from the clouds above.

He wasn't going to cry, at least that's what he kept telling himself. He blinked away any water that had escaped out of his tear ducts, and took a deep breath. He never thought in a million years he would let himself get _possessed_. He looked out into the parking lot again, the image of the little boy coming to mind. Before he could wonder if the kid was alright, he felt a hand push him towards the car.

"You just going to stand there all night looking like a damned fool or what?" John exclaimed, brow creased in his now ever present anger. The man got in the Impala and slammed the door, ignoring the hurt look on his son's face.

Dean set his bag in the back seat and got in the car, trying desperately to control his shaking body. The pain in his chest was growing worse by the minute, and for the life of him, he couldn't understand why. It wasn't as though he hadn't been cut before; he had the scars to prove it, but something just didn't feel right. He tried to shrug off the thought, all the while deciding that he at least needed a clean shirt. It wasn't exactly the smartest thing to go around covered in blood, whether it was yours or not. Painstakingly, he reached into the back seat and retrieved a clean shirt from his bag. He carefully slid off the hoodie, followed closely by his t-shirt. He winced as he pulled the cotton away from the wound, the blood still trying to stick to the material. After a few painful seconds, he got it off. He let out the breath that was in his lungs before attempting to put on the clean shirt. His brow narrowed when he realized his father's eyes were on him, scrutinizing the younger hunter.

"Put the damn shirt on already, Dean. I don't need to see that. Just another thing you and your brother don't have in common," the man added on, his eyes going back to the road.

Dean looked down at himself, then back at his father, wondering what the man could possibly be talking about. He immediately felt self-conscious and slipped the fresh shirt over his head, followed by the hoodie. He slowly folded his arms across his stomach, and tried to ignore the empty feeling that was starting to consume him.

"Are you okay, Dad?" He couldn't help but ask it, pain encasing his eyes as his father began to speak.

"What the hell do you think?" the man sneered, turning his head every so often to face the younger hunter. "No, you idiot, I am not fine. You could have gotten us both killed with your stupidity and ignorance, and all you have to say for yourself is that you're sorry. Well, I've got news for you, kiddo, you're going to learn what it truly means to be sorry."

Dean nodded after a moment, and let his head hang in shame. He'd let down his father again, only this was the biggest fuck up of them all. He knew, deep down, that there wasn't going to be a chance in hell at forgiveness. Not this time. He knew he deserved what was coming his way. Even if it was almost going to kill him.

SPNSPNSPNSPN

_Stop it, you bitch! He's a lot smarter than what you think! He WILL figure this out, and you will be rotting in hell sooner than you know._

It was like looking out a window from John's perspective. He could see everything that was happening and going on, but he had no control over it whatsoever. He could, however, still communicate with the demon, and vice versa.

_Oh, John. Such a silly man you are. How does it feel, hmmm? After all, this is how you've been treating him for the past three years, isn't it? _

The seasoned hunter hated the feeling of helplessness that surrounded him. There was nothing he could do, and the demon knew it.

_John, John, John, you think this is bad? Oh, you haven't seen anything yet. I want you to watch as I destroy your son from the inside out. I will tear him apart mentally and physically, and you'll be able to see everything! Isn't it wonderful? And in the end, I'll slip out of your meatsuit, and his blood will be on your hands. All over them..._

John tried clawing his way out of its grip, but it was latched onto his soul, binding it in place.

_You can keep trying, Winchester, but it won't work. The only way you're going to get out of here is when your son is dead. And with the way things are going, it won't be much longer._

John's scream went unheard, and the demon could do nothing but smile.

_Nope, not much longer at all, Johnny boy._

**A/N : Big thanks to Imperial Dragon, Adorereading, babyreaper, PrettyGirlyFan, Glades of Grey, kissacazador, renniespice, Wataru Kisugi, and the anon reviewer for your kind reviews. I really do appreciate them! And thanks to the everyone else as well. This story has gotten over 10,000 hits this month, so I seriously can't thank you all enough. For those of you in the US, I hope you all enjoy the new season that starts tonight, I know I will! :D And yes, for Dean, it can only get worse before its gets any better. More to come soon...**


	18. When the Levee Breaks

**The Illusionist**

**Chapter 17 : When the Levee Breaks**

Dean tried not to let the guilt get to him, but it did. It ate away at his soul, and made him believe that the extreme way his father was treating him was deserved.

He was pushing himself too far and too fast, and it showed. In two weeks, he'd lost more weight that he couldn't afford to lose. John was making him run up to fifteen miles a day, repeatedly telling the younger hunter that he wasn't anywhere near as fast as he should be, and that he needed to be stronger and better.

Dean took it all in, letting the insults and pain run rampant through his mind, and trying his hardest not to let it show that he was simply falling apart as the days went on.

They were somewhere in Minnesota; he couldn't quite recall where exactly, but he was pretty sure it was near St. Cloud. They'd just come from a salt and burn down near Nashville, Tennessee; and John insisted on driving straight there.

Dean had to remind the man to stop for gas more than once, and every time he did, he received a reminder that John was the one in charge and knew what he was doing. By the time they made it near the Minnesota state line, the younger hunter was sporting a few new cuts and bruises. He regretfully (after the fact) asked if they could stop by and see how Pastor Jim was doing; that inquiry earned him a black eye. He decided not to speak anymore unless spoken to after that.

He was barely able to keep his eyes open when they passed a sign that said WELCOME TO REDWOOD FALLS. He mentally acknowledged where they were, and let himself drift to sleep. He couldn't have been out for less than five minutes when a slap to the head woke him from unconsciousness.

"We're here," John stated, wearing the same irritated, angry expression that had been set on his face for the past two weeks.

Dean stared at him cluelessly, his blurred vision keeping the younger hunter from understanding what his father had just said.

"I said we're here, dammit!" John exclaimed angrily, smacking Dean upside the head again.

The twenty-five year old flinched away, but was too tired to do much else. He got out of the car, and almost fell over from dizziness; he honestly wasn't sure when he'd last eaten. All he knew is that it had been awhile, and he was past the point of being hungry. He was exhausted beyond belief and just wanted to sleep, even if it was for just an hour or two. He didn't know how his father was doing it, just that the man had been going damn near nonstop for awhile, and didn't even appear to be the least bit tired. He was just angry and spiteful.

Dean stumbled into the motel room after his father and went to the nearest bed. He laid down without a second thought, not even bothering to take off his boots, let alone his jacket. Instead, he wrapped the piece of clothing tighter around himself, and was out within a matter of seconds.

He didn't dream, at least not that he could recall, during his three hours of rest, if you could call it that. John woke him up by a punch to the thigh, the pain dragging the younger hunter out of his dead sleep. It was a wound that had been healing from one of their previous hunts; the black part of the bruise there had disappeared, leaving behind an assortment of purples, blues, and greens. Dean was certain the black would probably be back now.

He did his best to stave off any sound, his leg throbbing as he brought it over the side of the bed. He looked up at his father, the usual expression of fury stretched tightly across the older man's face.

"Get up. It's time for your run," John barked, staring down at the younger hunter.

Dean made no motion to move, just stayed there sitting on the side of the bed. He was in no shape to run; this much he knew. His entire body felt like it was made of lead, his arms and legs sorer than he could ever remember.

"I said get up!" John commanded, fist at the ready to punish his son further.

"I-I can't." The words were barely audible, the raspy voice that said them sounding defeated and broken.

He knew there was going to be punishment, but he still wasn't prepared for the way John pulled him up so easily, the older hunter gripping his jacket so tightly that Dean was sure it was going to rip. The younger hunter just stood there and let him do it though, hanging limply in the man's grasp.

"What do you mean you can't?" John shouted, his face within inches of Dean's.

The younger hunter was readying a reply when the scent hit him. His father's breath normally smelled of coffee or alcohol (nowadays); but the scent that hit him this time was neither. It was sulfur.

His body tensed at this, all the worn muscles coming alive quickly. His green eyes widened, looking more awake and aware than they had for awhile now.

John shook him like a rag doll, hollering something that Dean was supposed to understand, but he didn't. He wasn't paying attention to the man anymore.

Everything suddenly made sense; how much worse his father had been treating him, the things he was saying, the not sleeping, the barely eating. John hadn't killed the demon—no—his father was now possessed by the thing, and had been this entire time.

Dean felt positively stupid for not realizing it sooner.

A hard punch to the right side of his face broke him from his reverie, the force sending him back onto his bed.

His eyes rolled automatically as he felt too-strong hands yank him up once more, his feet stumbling for purchase. He knew he had a decision to make; wait for the right time, and get prepared for an exorcism, or just mumble _christo_ and get it the hell over with.

Apparently, the six letter word must have come out of his mouth at some point, because the next thing he knew, he was being thrown across the room. He could feel his head hit the wall, and then a wave of blackness conquered his vision.

SPNSPNSPN

The pain in his head stirred him first. It was throbbing like a drum beat in a techno song. He went to reach for the wound and assess the damage when he realized his hands weren't going anywhere; they were tied down to the arms of one of the motel chairs, as were his boot-clad feet.

He carefully opened his eyes, his vision blurring momentarily. It took a minute, but it finally cleared, and when it did, Not-John was now in his line of sight, sitting across from him at the table.

"Like father, like son. That is how the saying goes, isn't it?" the demon quirked up a side of John's mouth in a half-smile. "You know, it's funny because all those years ago, your father was in the exact same position as you are now. Can you believe it? I have the best luck, I swear..."

Dean could feel his heart beating a mile a minute; hell, he wouldn't be surprised if the damn thing didn't just pound right out of his chest. He'd faced many a creature in his lifetime, but never, not once had he faced a demon. A real one anyway. He managed to slow his breathing down somewhat, but the demon could tell he was a nervous wreck.

"Aw, Dean, what's wrong? Are you scared? Afraid I might take away your eyesight next? Because, I can do that you know." John's eyes glowed black, a sneer spreading across his lips.

"Go to hell, bitch!" The younger hunter forced out between gritted teeth, praying his voice was stronger than his will at the moment.

"If I had a dime for every time someone said that to me...I'd be rich! But that's besides the point, Deano. See-"

"Fuck you!" Dean shouted, green eyes burning angrily. He was pissed. He couldn't believe he hadn't realized it sooner; but now was not the time to take it out on himself. There would be plenty of time for that later.

"You really think you can talk to me like that?" Not-John rose from the chair, a mix of amusement and slight anger creeping over his features. He stepped in front of Dean, glowering down at him.

Dean met his gaze, a ghost of a smile appearing on his lips. "I can talk to you however I want. You're not my dad. You're just one of Satan's good-for-nothing flunkies." He smirked, letting his smartass side shine through loud and clear.

The demon didn't hesitate to react. It moved quickly, so quickly Dean didn't even have a chance to prepare himself for the punch to the jaw or the blow to his ribs. All he felt was pain clamoring through his body, each broken bone vying for his attention. He coughed heavily, praying that none of his ribs were trying to make shish kabobs out of his lungs.

"So out of all the words there are, flunkey upsets you the most? Ha, never would've thought," Dean continued, knowing he was laying it on thick. He had to get the demon distracted in some way, shape, or form; it was the only way he and his father had a chance in hell of getting out of there.

Alive.

"You think you're just so damned cute, huh, Dean?" Not-John asked. "Well, you know what? You're right. You're fucking adorable. Especially when you're in pain. Did you know that?" The demon was smiling again, wide and cheerful.

Dean's eyes widened a bit when he watched Not-John pull the bowie knife he kept under his pillow for protection out from its hiding place.

"I've used this on you before. Let's see if that's healed up yet, shall we?" it inquired, slowly lifting up Dean's shirt with the sharp end of the knife. It's grin grew wider when it saw the scar that was beginning to take on the pinkish skin around the wound. "I don't think my work of art is quite done yet. How about we add a little something to it? Hmm?" The demon made a quick slice straight down his chest this time, crisscrossing with the old wound. Only in this instance, it went a little deeper than before.

Normally, Dean was great about keeping his mouth shut while in pain, but this time he decided to scream, praying that there was someone in one of the rooms on either side of theirs. He could tell that the walls were thin enough to hear through; the place wasn't exactly the Hilton after all.

Not-John chuckled at the younger hunter. "Aw, did that hurt, Deano? What about this?" it offered up, running the blade down his left cheek, a thin trail of blood following in its wake.

"Eat me!" Dean exclaimed, spitting in Not-John's face. The demon backhanded him in response, forcing blood to shoot out between Dean's lips.

"You have got to come up with some better catch phrases than that, Deano. That one was pretty lame. But, you wanna know what isn't lame? How much your father truly detests you. I bet you probably already knew that though. I mean, shit, you couldn't even tell the difference between me and him for two whole weeks! I've seen some bad parenting skills, but he really takes the cake."

"Shut up!" the younger hunter shouted, repeatedly telling himself that it was just a lousy demon and only trying to get to him. That was all; there was no truth to what it was saying.

"What kind of a father actually _chooses_ between their kids? Oh, wait, I know! This guy!" it laughed, pointing to John's chest. "All these years he took his failure out on you, and look where that's got him." It crouched down in front of Dean, using his knees as resting spots for its elbows. "You're a sad sight, Dean. You've got no friends, no family that actually cares about you. Your little brother—the one you love soooo much—hasn't even bothered to get a hold of you for what, two years now? Why don't you just end it all? You'd be better off."

"Shut up!" Dean repeated, pulling at the rope that was constricting his movements. "Just shut up!" He tried kicking at the demon, but the restraints were still too damned tight.

"I thought you'd run out of steam by now," it admitted matter-of-factly. "You poor thing," it said, taunting him with its words, ghosting the knife over his stomach. "Just look at you. You starve yourself, and run for miles and miles, all because you think it makes your father happy. Makes you think that you just might be good enough for him someday. But guess what, that's never gonna happen. You've been a disappointment to the man for so long, that I don't think anything could change the way he feels about you."

Dean kept silent; he was too busy fighting the spinning room.

_You've got to stay conscious long enough to get to the journal. Just a little longer. Don't pussy out now!_ He told himself, though it was getting harder and harder to listen.

The demon grabbed a hold of his jaw, forcing the younger hunter to look at it.

"You can't pass out yet, Dean. The real fun has yet to begin!" It was right in his face again, and the smell of sulfur that came through its lips made the middle Winchester want to puke.

"What is it that you want from me? Huh?" Dean was trying so hard; but doubt lingered in his mind. He wondered if he truly was strong enough to beat this thing. "What do you want from me?" he shouted, wary eyes staring at the monster in front of him.

"I'll be honest with you, Dean. There's absolutely nothing you can give me that I want. Well, unless, you count you dying. You see," it said, leaning in closer. "Sixteen years ago, your daddy killed my brother, and-"

"You're a demon. You don't have family!" the twenty-five yelled, more specks of blood flying from his lips as he spoke.

"How little you really know about us, Dean. Everyone has families. Even us. And your dad destroyed what was left of mine. I thought I'd gotten him to leave me alone after I took your hearing, but no, he decided to try to find me again, and that was a big mistake. So now I'm going to show him what it feels like to be me, all alone in this world, with no one to love me," it mock cried, pretending to wipe a tear off its cheek. "I'm going to kill you, and make him watch every single minute of it."

Dean murmured something inaudible, forcing the demon to move even closer, their faces almost touching. Dean couldn't stand being that close to anyone, with the exception of a beautiful woman every now and then.

"What did you say?" it hissed, gripping him by his hair.

"I said it's funny that you actually think you can beat me," he stated, half-lidded eyes opening wide as he jerked forward, slamming his forehead against his father's. All the while they were going back and forth, Dean had been working at the rope, finally managing to get his right arm free. While the demon was crashing to the floor, the younger hunter reached out and grabbed the knife, blade side first. He winced as it cut through the calloused flesh of his hand, but he pulled it out of the demon's grasp and hurriedly cut the rope on his left arm. He'd been able to free one leg before the demon regained its composure.

"Now that was a really stupid thing to do, kiddo. You are so going to pay for that one," it snarled. It lunged for the middle Winchester, knocking the chair over and both of them to the threadbare floor. They started to struggle, the demon gradually getting the upper hand, but Dean was quick and threw out a hard right. It landed straight on the side of his father's jaw, sending him back on to the floor.

Dean pulled his other leg from the rope and propelled himself towards the table. His hand was almost on the journal when he felt strong fingers with an iron grip wrap around his ankle, yanking him back to the floor. He stuck his hand out to lessen the blow the floor would have on his cheek. When he landed, he felt something crack underneath him.

He let out a low whine of pain as he tried to push himself back up, a few fingers now fractured from the fall. He could feel Not-John wrap too-strong arms around his waist, so Dean reached out before he was taken backwards, his uninjured hand landing on the coveted journal just as he landed on top of Not-John.

Dean rolled to the side as the thing tried to get on top of him, his shaking hands opening the book and hurriedly flipping through the pages. He was able to push himself to his knees when the demon landed a shot to one of his kidney's. Dean fell forward, but kept the book open, praying he could find the right page in time. He pushed himself up once again, managing to twist towards the demon. He slashed at it half-haphazardly with his injured hand while his green eyes searched the pages for his father's incantation.

John had mentioned it so long ago that Dean had almost forgotten about it. Of course, he had been drunk when he spoke about it, but Dean was sure that he wasn't bluffing when he'd said it could "send anything straight to hell." It was the middle Winchester's only chance, one he was more than willing to take.

Not-John landed another blow to his battered body, straight in the middle of his chest. It sent a shock wave of pain through Dean's system, damn near sending him right to the floor. He leaned forward, and took the opportunity to flip through a few more pages, his heart almost stopping when his eyes found the words.

Without even thinking about it, he started reading the words aloud as fast as he could. Even though his vision was starting to become cloudy and hazy, he forced himself to continue, only glancing up when he realized he was no longer being hit.

The demon was writhing on the floor, black eyes as wide as saucers. He could tell it was screaming bloody murder, but he continued all the way to the end. As he spoke the final words with the last bit of strength he had in him, he watched Not-John's mouth open and black smoke began to pour out. It lasted all of ten seconds, and then it was gone.

Dean let out the breath he'd been holding, and collapsed to the floor, his body finally giving out on him.

**A/N : I can't thank you all enough for your awesome reviews. You guys are too kind to me! ;) So many thanks to PrettyGirlyFan, TWIantoJones, shammy101, raven2547, Hinjintetsusou, babyreaper, Me, Imperial Dragon, Guiltypleasures exposed, anon, kissacazador, Glades of Grey, and Wataru Kisugi. Thank you all once again so much, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter. More to come soon...;)**


	19. Wondering Why

**The Illusionist**

**Chapter 18 : Wondering Why**

He was warm, and comfortable for the first time in quite a while. He could feel a warmth on his eyelids as well, and when he opened them, the sun was shining on him through the open curtains. He took a minute to gather his surroundings and immediately remembered where he was. Green eyes searched the room, taking in the crack on the wall where his head was split open; that was the only reminder of what had taken place there.

Everything else was exactly the way he'd remembered it being when they first arrived there. The motel chairs were planted by the table, no remains of rope in sight. The carpet held no trace of the bloodstains that Dean knew would have been there, he'd lost too much for there not to be. He sniffed the air, and found no trace of sulfur whatsoever. He wondered if he'd dreamed it all, that the demon wasn't real, that none of it was; but he knew better.

It took a moment to hit him, but he soon saw that he was the only one in the room, and the fear that he'd been forcing back was starting to present itself again. The thought was dashed as the door opened and his father walked through, carrying a few plastic bags filled with supplies.

Dean's heart froze, a sudden realization hitting him head on—he could hear the bags rustling in his father's hands.

"Dad?" he asked, his voice so soft that John didn't even hear it, but he did. He could hear himself. "Dad?" he repeated, louder, a closeted excitement in his tone.

John looked up from fiddling with the door, his brown eyes slowly falling on his son's wide ones.

"Dean?" The oldest Winchester's voice was quiet, contained, but curious.

"Dad, I can hear you," Dean said, sitting bolt upright in the bed. "I-I can hear everything!" The younger hunter had tears in his eyes, and it only took a second to see the ones dancing in his father's.

John stared at his son for a long moment, unable to move. There was so much he wanted to say, and the eldest Winchester was never a man of many words. Instead, he set the bags on the floor, still hesitant to go any closer to Dean.

"Dad, did you hear me?" the twenty-five year old asked, pushing the various blankets and covers off of himself, trying to get up.

"Yeah-Yeah, Dean, I heard you," John replied, his voice deep and gruff. It was lower than Dean remembered, but he didn't really care right now. All that mattered was that he could hear it.

"It must be because the demon's gone. Your incantation worked!" Dean said proudly, standing to his feet, his balance still a bit unstable. After a minute or so, he finally made it around the side of his bed, within a foot of his father. He didn't see how reluctant the older man was to be near him.

"Yeah, I know," his father responded, though he sounded anything but happy. There was a deep sadness in his tone, mixed with regret and guilt; and Dean could hear it all.

"Then what's wrong? I'm fixed! You don't have to worry about me screwing up on hunts anymore because I can't hear you, or me having to constantly read your lips and try to figure out what you're saying. I'm normal again, Dad. After sixteen years, I'm finally normal!" There was a hopeful grin on the younger hunter's bruised visage, his lips forming a lopsided smile.

"Nothing-" John cut himself off to clear his throat. "Nothing's wrong, Dean. It's just..."

"It's just what?" Dean asked, confusion creasing his brow. "It's just nothing. I'm fine."

"Dean, look..." the man's voice trailed off, his gaze falling to the floor, unable to look at his son.

"Just say it. It doesn't matter that I can hear, I'm still not good enough for you, am I?" The brokenness was back in the younger hunter's voice, any trace of hope for the future gone from his gaunt face. His thin shoulders slumped forward, sadness refilling his green eyes.

"Just stop for a minute, alright?" John asked, holding a hand out in front of his chest.

Dean's brow narrowed when he heard his father's voice shake, the action pulling his gaze from the carpet back to his father's solemn face.

"I-I don't think I'll ever be able to tell you exactly what I need to, Dean, or what you want to hear—"

"Dad...," Dean mumbled, the pain within him increasing.

"No, just let me finish," John started, waving his son off. "I can't even begin to tell you, how sorry I am for everything that's happened to you—for everything I've done. I will never ask for your forgiveness, son, because I have no right to. I..." he paused to stop the shaking in his voice, and cleared his throat again. "You have never, ever been a disappointment to me. I pushed you harder than Sam because I honestly didn't think you could make it in this way of life after what happened.

"I made your life a living hell; and just the fact that you honestly couldn't tell the difference between me and that demon—"

"Dad-"

John continued on, his gaze going back and forth between his son's face and the floor. "You didn't even realize that it was no longer me in here, and—that says something, Dean. I truly am sorry for everything I've done to you, and I think maybe it's best, when you're all healed up, that we go our separate ways, at least for a little while."

Dean immediately shook his head. "There's no need for that, and you know it," Dean stated, a hint of anger in his tone. "I won't hold anything against you. How could I? I may not understand everything you went through, but that doesn't mean I don't get it.

"I can hear again, and with me not being handicapped anymore, we can be an even better team." The younger hunter was doing his best to sound enthused, and to keep the anxiousness that he was starting to feel from his tone.

"You weren't handicapped, Dean-"

"Yes, Dad, I was," the twenty-five year old clarified with a nod. "I slowed you down, and made hunting hard as hell for you. I took your imperfect life, and made it even more messed up. So not only did you have to care for two kids-"

"Dean, stop. I want you to understand something," John said, taking a step closer to his son. "None of this, and I repeat none of this was your fault. Not now, not then, not ever. It was all my doing, and you were right. I should've found a way other than choosing your brother over you. I let that demon get to me, and it all came down on you instead. I'm sorry, son. I really am. That's why this—isn't going to work," he stated, gesturing between them.

"I-I don't understand. Why not? You want to leave me that badly? Did I do something else? I'll work even harder, Dad. You don't have to go." Dean could hear his voice, and the pleading tone it held, but he couldn't help it. His world was crashing down on him, all the weight resting on his lonely shoulders.

"You'll be better off, Dean. I promise. Trust—"

Dean's eyes widened in horror; he could see his father's mouth moving, but the sound was gone. All he heard was silence again, just as he had before.

"Dean, what's wrong?" John asked, concern actually present on his face. "Son?"

"No," the younger hunter whispered, shaking his head. "No, please," he begged to no one in particular, his hands immediately going to his ears. "No, this isn't fair!"

John laid his hand on Dean's shoulder, the younger hunter blanching at the touch, shrinking back towards the bed.

"It's gone!" Dean exclaimed, bright green eyes holding a pain that no one should ever have to.

"What's gone?" John asked, taking a few more steps towards his son.

"I can't hear anymore! I could, but now it's gone!" he shouted, his body beginning to tremble in panic.

"Hey, hey, take it easy, just sit down," John said, wrapping his fingers around his son's skinny arm and guiding him to the bed.

Dean gasped at the grip that was starting to tighten around his bicep, and his gaze traveled straight to his father's eyes. They were their normal color at first, but Dean could feel his heart just about stop when they flashed black. Cold, desolate, and empty.

Possessed.

He'd failed. He'd failed, just when he thought everything was going to be okay...

"Well, there goes that," the demon laughed, flashing an evil grin. "Good thing you caught on now. I don't know how much more of that sappy shit I could've taken."

All of Dean's muscles seemed to tense at once; his body was frozen in shock, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do but stare at the thing that was occupying his father.

It laughed again, harder this time when it saw the expression on the middle Winchester's face. "Did you honestly believe that your dad would ever change? Oh my God are you gullible. I thought you'd be smarter than that, Dean."

All at once, the pain hit him. The headache smashed into him full force, making him nauseous and blurring his vision all at once. His chest felt like it was on fire, his breathing becoming labored and shallow. His side throbbed, white hot pain shooting through it, with all due thanks to the broken and cracked ribs. His lungs felt like they couldn't take in enough air, and black spots danced in his vision.

"Poor, Deano, you just never learn, do you ace? One day you will. You can't get rid of me. No matter how hard you try..."

Dean could hear the last word it spoke, the sound echoing through his ears, and that's when he knew. It wasn't real. None of it was. He was dreaming, only just this; everything else...

Dean sat bolt upright, sweat pouring down his face and neck. His body was soaked, the t-shirt he was wearing sticking to him like a second skin. A hand immediately shot to his left side, his broken ribs hurting like a bitch, and his chest burning heatedly. It took a moment to realize that the wounds were wrapped and bandaged, making him wonder where his father was.

He looked around the room, taking in the emptiness of it. It wasn't the same one they'd been staying in. It looked a little cleaner than the last, and a little bigger, but it was empty, with Dean being the exception.

A horrible dread settled in his chest as he peeled the cheap blankets off the rest of his body, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The full-sized one across from him was empty, the sheets still perfectly made and unused. His gaze wondered to the door, his duffel sitting next to it; John's no where to be seen.

A lump was starting to form in his throat, and as hard as he tried to swallow it down, it wouldn't budge.

He looked to the nightstand and saw a wad of cash and a few fake credit cards laying underneath his phone and wallet; and a set of keys. The Impala's keys.

It was getting harder for him to breathe, but he forced himself to stand, legs wobbly and unpredictable. He made his way over to the window and peered out, the Impala parked just outside the window. It was cast in dull, gray light; the clouds above sealing the sun away from the world below.

He took a step back towards the bed, but stilled, pain enveloping his eyes.

He had exorcised the demon; he hadn't failed. At least there was that much.

But now he was alone.

Terribly and utterly alone.

This time he knew it wasn't a temporary thing. John wasn't going to come back.

He was gone.

And Dean was alone.

**A/N : That was an emotionally draining chapter...Anyway, THANK YOU all so much. Your reviews were so kind, and I can't thank you all enough. MANY, MANY THANKS to doesthatmakemepokey, babyreaper, Callisto-HK, shammy101, Glades of Grey, zhen123, PrettyGirlyFan, Hinjintetsusou, raven2547, kissacazador, Wataru Kisugi, Imperial Dragon, anon, and Renniespice. Thank you all again, I really do appreciate your feedback. Alas, I feel the need to tell you all that there are maybe two to three chapters left in this story. HOWEVER, there will be a sequel. It's in the planning stages now. More to come soon...;)**


	20. One More Day Without You

**The Illusionist**

**Chapter 19 : One More Day Without You**

_*italics are used for when Dean is using ASL, and not actually speaking_

The sun was setting on the two-lane highway, dusk creeping across the sky and stealing the remaining light.

Dean's wary eyes were focused on the road ahead, but his mind was somewhere else completely. He'd been searching for his father for over three weeks, and kept coming up with nothing. He'd contacted Caleb and Pastor Jim, texting them that he had been on a hunt of his own, and it had taken longer than planned, and was unable to get a hold of his father when he was done. Neither had heard from the man, and were more concerned with the fact that the middle Winchester had been hunting on his own. Dean being Dean lied a little more, and told them that he could handle his own and would be alright.

But he wasn't alright.

He wasn't sleeping, barely eating still, and he knew he looked horrible. The last time he looked into a mirror, he wasn't sure if it were a zombie or a vampire that was staring back at him. The dark circles under his eyes were a deep purple, his skin bruised and blood vessels broken from lack of rest. He was more than just thin now, he was down right skinny. He hadn't done the girly thing and weighed himself, but if he had to guess, he was teetering on one-forty; a far cry from what he was the last time his little brother had seen him.

His diet consisted of coffee, caffeine, beer, and whatever flavor pie the diner he'd stop in was serving. It didn't help that the money John had left him was spent mostly on gas. He still had the credit cards, and he'd managed a few hustles here and there, but it was a damned hard thing to do when you were deaf and didn't speak.

He hadn't said a word since his father had abandoned him in Minnesota. He just didn't feel like speaking, figured he probably wouldn't be heard anyway.

He was now on his way to doing something he thought he'd never in a million years be doing. It took him a while to come to terms with it, but he'd exhausted most of his other options, and this was pretty much the only one left.

He'd been driving for almost twenty-four hours straight with a few pit stops along the way, and still had a ways to go. He could feel a headache coming on, starting right behind his eyes. He didn't want to accept the fact that he was either going to have to find a motel soon, or just pull over on the side of the road and sleep.

He glanced at the next road sign, it stating that the nearest town was still forty miles away. It took another five for him to admit defeat; the ache growing stronger and more intense. He slowed the car, and pulled onto the dirt covered shoulder. He came to a stop and killed the engine, the rumbling that was vibrating the car disappearing from underneath of him.

He sighed, closing his eyes and pressing his thumb and index fingers into his eyelids. The pain was starting to become unbearable. Clenching his jaw, he twisted in his seat and reached into the back, retrieving a bottle of aspirin from the his duffel. He dry swallowed three of them, wincing at the bitter aftertaste they left in his mouth.

He pulled one of his jackets from the back seat and bunched it up, turning it into a makeshift pillow. He laid down across the front seat, knees bent due to lack of room for his long legs. As the chilly night air started to seep through the car, he curled up tighter, repeatedly telling himself as he fell asleep that it really wasn't all that cold even though it was in the low forties outside. He'd mange though, he always did.

SPNSPNSPN

He hadn't always been a light sleeper, especially when he was younger, but the older he got, the easier it was to wake up to the slightest noise, like the one he had just heard. He jumped out from under the covers, and grabbed the baseball bat that was nearby.

He forced his eyes to adjust to the darkness as he made his way out of the bedroom and out into the hall. It didn't take long for him to hear footsteps, or to see that there was most definitely an intruder in the house.

He watched the unsuspecting person walk past a doorway, thus, giving him their location. He hurriedly got behind them, but they were perceptive and fast, swinging first. Their shadows danced in the moonlight that was straying through the windows, moving quickly and precisely as they fought one another, a few blows hitting, others missing, and some on target; but it didn't take long for Sam to get the upper hand. He slammed the intruder on the floor, his eyes widening when he realized it was his older brother looking back up at him.

"Dean?" he asked, surprise and shock plastered upon his features.

"_Hey_," Dean mouthed, smiling sheepishly as he raised a hand and waved at his little brother.

"What-What are you doing here?" Sam inquired, shaking his head as he remembered that Dean couldn't exactly hear the sound of his voice. He signed it, brow creasing when he saw Dean silently laughing at him. "What? What's so funny?"

"_The fact that you've still got me on the floor, for one," _Dean signed in Sam's face, also to show him that they were still in the dark.

"Right," Sam muttered and got up, holding his hand out to help his older brother up. When Dean accepted, he pulled him up, frowning a bit at how easy it was. He went to flip the light on, but was beaten by someone else.

"Sam, what's going on? Who's that?" Jessica asked, nodding towards Dean.

"Um, Jess, this is Dean, my brother," Sam replied, gesturing towards his older brother. "Dean-"

"_I like the Smurfs too,"_ Dean signed with a grin, one that actually reached his eyes for once as he stared at the long-legged, half-naked blond.

"Is that right?" Jessica laughed, signing back.

Dean's eyes widened at her reply, surprised at the fact that she knew sign language.

"My sister's deaf too. All her life," she explained, smiling. "Nice to meet you, Dean," she said and signed simultaneously, running her right hand across her left, palms flat against each other then making two fists and extending her index fingers towards each other.

"_Picked a good one this time, Sammy,"_ Dean talked with his hands as he turned towards his brother.

"It's Sam, not Sammy," the brunette corrected, finger-spelling his name pointedly.

"_Whatever," _Dean signed with a roll of the eyes, putting his palms out faced down in front of him and brushing his left hand on top of his right, and vice versa.

"Why exactly are you here?" Sam asked, an eyebrow raised in curiosity. "You haven't spoken to me in two years, so what's going on?"

"_Can you excuse us for a minute?"_ Dean asked, signing towards Jess.

"Whatever you have to say, you can say it front of her," Sam stated, walking over to his girlfriend and standing by her side.

"_Please, Sam,"_ Dean silently pleaded, running his right hand flat across his chest clockwise.

"It's okay, Sam. You two talk," Jessica said, laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I'll be in the bedroom. Nice meeting you again, Dean," she signed, and left the room.

"What is going on, Dean? Don't get me wrong, I'm happy to see you and all, but I can tell something isn't right," Sam said, the frown from earlier returning. With the light on, it was much easier to see his older brother, and what he saw wasn't good. He counted at least three layers of clothing on Dean's much slighter frame, and he wondered if there wasn't possibly a fourth. It looked like the middle Winchester hadn't slept in days, or eaten for that matter. Then there was the matter of the scar that looked fresh on his forehead...

"_It's Dad. He's gone missing," _Dean explained, green eyes trying desperately to hide away all the pain that was coursing throughout his body.

"What do you mean he's gone missing?" Sam's brow creased, his blueish-green eyes showing a hint of concern. He was so not liking where this conversation was going.

"_I was on a hunt down in New Orleans, some voodoo-"_

"Wait, Dad let you go on a hunt by yourself?" Sam asked, cutting his older brother off in the process.

"_Dude, I'm twenty-five,"_ Dean stated in a matter-of-fact way with his hands, and another roll of the eyes.

"Yeah, and you're also _deaf_," Sam added with emphasis, pointing his right index finger at his ear, then near his mouth.

"_And?"_ Dean asked, pressing the fingertips of his right hand together and opening them as he moved the hand to his right.

"Okay, so what do you need me for?" Sam threw the question out in the air, curiosity etched across his face. He was pretty sure he already knew the answer, he just wanted to see Dean say it himself.

"_I need you to help me find him." _The middle Winchester's hand movements were reluctant and slow. He bit his bottom lip, and cast his gaze to the floor for a moment, hesitant to see his younger brother's reaction.

Sam could feel the anger towards his father turn his face into a glare (to him at least; he knew Dean called it a bitchface). "He's probably just hanging out with Jose, Jim, and Jack somewhere. He'll pop up eventually."

"_It's been three weeks, Sam. Three weeks. I've contacted Caleb and Pastor Jim, and no one's seen or heard of him. It's not like him."_

"Not like him? Don't tell me you don't remember all the times he'd leave us in some shitty motel for a month or more, and no one had seen or heard from him then either. I don't understand why this time would be any different," Sam argued, folding his arms across his chest. He held Dean's gaze for a moment until his older brother broke it.

"Fine," the barely audible word parted Dean's lips. He didn't even look back at his younger brother as he made his way to the back door.

Sam rolled his eyes, and sighed. He hurriedly reached for his jacket, and slipped on his sneakers, and followed his brother out to the Impala. When Dean still wouldn't stop walking, he reached out and clamped a hand around his brother's arm, eyes widening in concern as Dean jerked wildly out of his grasp, his face going paler than it already was. Sam didn't like the look of pain that quickly flashed across his older brother's face; the expression was fleeting, but it had been there.

"What's wrong with you? Are you hurt?" Sam asked, blue-green eyes filled with worry.

"_No_," Dean answered with a shake of his head. _"I'm fine."_ He stood still, the street lamps casting shadows over his gaunt face. The dim light only made his weight loss stand out even more.

Sam stared at him for a long moment, disliking the entire situation.

"_Sorry I came here, Sammy. I shouldn't have. I'll let you get back to your college life and your girlfriend. It was nice seeing you. Have a good life," _Dean quickly signed, keeping his upset gaze to the ground.

Sam watched him get in the car, the engine starting right up. Another sigh escaped Sam's lips as he ran over to the door, sticking his face in the driver's side window. He stared at Dean until his older brother finally looked at him, and rolled the window down.

"_What?" _Dean asked, his hands facing palm up as he moved them out and forward a little, as sharply as he could.

"Fine, I'll go with you, but I have to be back by Monday," the youngest Winchester stated firmly, brow narrowing in seriousness. He couldn't help but let the irritation he'd felt earlier dissipate when he saw the grin that lit up his older brother's face at his words. Something tugged at him inside his chest, because he knew there was more going on that what Dean was telling him, and somehow, he didn't think the weekend would give him enough time to find out.

He'd try his damnedest though; his stubborn side wouldn't settle for less.

**A/N : And here's Sammy! ;) THANK YOU all for your kind reviews. They truly do give me motivation, and make my day/week/month/year. MANY THANKS goes to Imperial Dragon, babyreaper, PrettyGirlyFan, astafir, anon, Glades of Grey, Deansmuse, JJJFan, raven2547, kissacazador, Wataru Kisugi, renniespice, zhen123, kept by corgi's, Mzzmarie, and melancholyblood. You are all so awesome to me, and I really do appreciate you taking the time out to give me feedback. Thank you also to those who've put me on a list, or faved me. I hope this chapter was good enough. I tried not to make it too word for word, since circumstances are different, but still close to the Pilot ep. Probably two to three chapters left, then on to the next one. More to come soon. ;)**


	21. Nobody But You

**The Illusionist**

**Chapter 20 : Nobody But You**

They had left at dawn, Sam reassuring Jessica that he'd be home in time for his interview, and for her not to worry and that everything would be alright. But Sam was smarter than that, and knew better. He was a Winchester, and nothing was ever alright in their family.

Dean had shoved some papers in his lap, the important parts that he wanted Sam to read had been highlighted, but Sam being Sam read through it all instead. He was going to be a lawyer after all, and being thorough was everything.

He stopped half way through though, his brow creasing as he realized that these newspaper clipping printouts had nothing to do with their father at all; at least none that he could find. They all alluded to one thing, that a ghoul was on the loose and Dean was dragging him into a hunt.

Sam took a deep breath, and set the stack of papers down. He looked over at his brother who picked up on his staring in no time.

Sam shook his head. "Pull over," he said and signed, his right hand flat in front of him as he moved his left hand over it.

Dean stared at him for a moment, but complied. "_What? Find something?"_ he inquired, peering down at the papers, then back up at his little brother, who looked none too pleased.

"This is a hunt, Dean," Sam stated simply, brow creased in annoyance.

"_And? Your point?"_ Dean asked, bringing his right index finger down and pointing at his left one without touching it.

"You said we were looking for Dad. What does this place have to do with him?" Sam picked up the top paper and pointed to the town the occurrences were happening in. "What would Dad be doing in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico? Pampering himself at one of the spas?"

"_I thought college was supposed to make you smarter, not more of a dumbass," _Dean signed, smirking when an indignant look spread across his little brother's face.

"I'm just trying to understand, Dean. What's your reasoning for him being there?" the youngest Winchester asked, trying not to lose his cool.

"_Do you even pay attention?" _Dean asked frustratedly, putting his hands up to the side of his face, palms facing inward, then moving them forward a bit. _"Never mind, you were only six so you probably wouldn't remember."_ He paused to gather his thoughts. "_Okay, Dad had a hunt down there awhile ago. He left us back in Albuquerque, and he was gone for three days instead of just three hours like he'd promised. Anyway, he went down there after a ghoul, but it got away before he could kill it. I figured he'd probably come back for it. You know, unfinished business."_

Sam nodded in understanding. "Why didn't you just say so in the first place, jerk?" he playfully asked, a hint of a grin pulling up the corners of his lips as he finger-spelled the last word.

"_Bitch,"_ Dean signed, forming his hand into the finger-spelling for the letter B and tapping his chin quickly. A small smile slowly spread across his face as he turned the engine back on. He glanced at Sam, then pulled back onto the road.

Sam let the ghost of a grin linger on his lips for a little while longer until his gaze fell back on his older brother, the feeling that something was wrong returning almost instantly. He had yet to bring up the subject of Dean's weight loss yet, and he could tell his older brother was trying his damnedest to hide the fact, but Sam could see right through all the layers. He could see how thin his brother's wrists had become when the sleeves of his jacket rode up every time he made a turn, or took a drink of his coffee. It was most obvious in his face though, his cheekbones more prominent than Sam could ever remember.

He wondered what exactly had happened while he was gone, and what led his older brother to become what he now was. He prayed that the person he looked up most to when he was a child wasn't dying of cancer or some other debilitating disease. It would be just like Dean to pretend everything was alright, but be suffering silently like he was so good at, Sam thought.

His gaze gradually traveled from Dean to the interior of the car, taking note of how clean it all was. The floorboards were freshly vacuumed, there wasn't any sign of trash of any kind anywhere (nor food for that matter), and the windows looked like they'd been washed on the inside and out. The damned thing was practically spotless. It looked even better than how their father had kept the car, which brought up another thought.

Their father had loved this car, but Sam knew that Dean had always secretly loved it more, and he wondered when exactly, their dad had given it to him. His gaze returned to his brother for just a moment, and Sam knew then that something had most definitely happened during their three years apart. It nagged at him for the rest of the drive.

SPNSPNSPN

Something about the car stopping must have woke him from his sleep, at least that's what Sam reasoned with himself when he opened his still sleep-filled eyes. It was dark, with the exception of the flashing neon motel sign stating that there was a vacancy. He quickly wiped a bit of drool from the side of his chin, and sat up, taking in his surroundings.

_Did he really just drive sixteen hours straight with no sleep? _The thought suddenly struck him. _Of course he did. Dad might be here._

The place looked rundown, as any place with the name Dude in it would. It was probably the cheapest place around though, Sam thought; it wasn't like their family could afford much better. His attention fell on the office in which Dean was currently in, but Sam wasn't liking how long it was taking him. After about three minutes, he watched his brother give the attendant a thankful smile, quickly exiting afterward. One of Sam's eyebrows quirked up when he saw the grin grow wider the closer Dean got to the car.

"What is it?" the youngest Winchester asked after Dean opened up the passenger side car door, motel keys dangling in hand.

"_Dad's here," _he replied, his green eyes showcasing a hopeful desperation Sam had too many times before.

"How do you know?" Sam inquired, exiting the car and looking down at his older brother.

"_This,"_ Dean pointed to the credit card in his hand.

"Hector Aframian?" Sam asked incredulously. "Seriously, you couldn't have thought of a better name than that? You're not a Jewish mexican. Not even close."

"_Besides the point now, Sammy,"_ Dean stated with an irritated glance. _"The guy inside asked if we were having a family reunion. Told me that a Burt Aframian checked in a week ago, room number 205. That's Dad!"_

"That's great," Sam said, tight-lipped. He hated the way his older brother would jump at their father's beck and call, always eager to please someone that couldn't be. "Lead the way," Sam said, clasping his left hand with his right and pulling it away from his chest, both thumbs pointing upward. He didn't like the feeling that was starting to stir in his chest, but he pushed it aside, unsure of what it meant exactly.

He followed his older brother up to the motel door, the numbers 205 staring back at them from peeling white paint. Dean looked to Sam for a moment before peering in the motel window, and the brunette could easily see the disappointment that lined his older brother's face.

"He's not in there, is he?" Sam asked when Dean looked at him. His older brother shook his head no. Sam held his hand out to Dean expectantly, a mischievous look set upon his youthful features.

"_What?"_ Dean asked, green eyes telling nothing and everything at the same time.

"Give me your lock pick," Sam ordered, watching his older brother reluctantly remove the tool from his pocket. It only took the younger Winchester a few seconds to get the door open, and he went inside. When he realized he wasn't being followed, he looked back outside the door and saw Dean standing there, staring out at the parking lot. Letting a sigh part his lips, he grabbed a hold of his brother's jacket and pulled him inside, a small smirk set upon his mouth.

Both their eyes widened at the state of the room. There were various papers and news articles and clippings taped to the walls, a non-broken salt line covering the threshold and both windows, and clothes and trash scattered across the floor.

Sam glanced at his brother and hated the look he was seeing on his face; there was some kind of deep hurt there, but as soon as Dean felt his eyes on him, it was gone, just like that.

"_He's been gone at least a few days,"_ Dean stated, staring at a half eaten hamburger tossed carelessly on the nightstand.

"Yeah, but it looks like he was here for exactly what you thought he was," Sam stated, pointing to some of the newspaper clippings on the wall. "I wonder why he left in such a hurry though..." Sam looked to his older brother only to find him staring right at him. "What is it?"

Dean shook his head and looked away, his gaze falling on the motel table. Sam didn't miss the widening of his brother's eyes when it fell on their father's journal. He watched Dean make his way over to the table and snatch it up quickly as though it were going to grow legs and run away. This, of course, made the youngest Winchester curious. One, the fact that their father left it seemingly without a second thought; and two, his older brother was looking more and more like he was going to hide it away for safe keeping without even giving it a second thought.

"Dean, what's going on?" Sam asked, forehead creasing in confusion, a hand going to his hip.

"_What do you mean 'what's going on'? Nothing's going on,"_ Dean responded, his right hand forming an "O" shape under his chin. He then threw it outward, a little too sharply for Sam's liking.

"I'm not going to help you with anything until you tell me what's going on. First, you come get me in the middle of the night, saying Dad disappeared while you were on a hunt on your own, which I don't believe, by the way. Second, you look ill, and if this is some quest where you're trying to find Dad before you di-"

"Shut up, Sam. I'm not dying," Dean stated, a concealed anger in his green eyes.

Sam stared at him, eyes narrowed at the sound of his brother's voice. It was raspy, and sounded like he was just getting it back after losing it or something. This only made the youngest Winchester even more curious.

"Then tell me what's going on," Sam countered, folding his arms across his chest.

"_I already told you. Dad disappeared, and he hasn't answered any of my texts in the last three weeks. If you don't want to help, then you can go back to Stanford, and I'll finish this myself. Sorry I took you away from your apple pie life,"_ Dean stated, going back into silent mode. All his hand movements were sharp, angry, and defensive. He snatched his father's research from his little brother's hand, and went over to the motel table, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

Sam rolled his eyes, and sighed. He hadn't seen his older brother in three years, and so much had changed about the middle Winchester, yet so much had also stayed the same. Especially his _I-can-do-it-myself-thanks_ attitude. Sam supposed that part of Dean would never go away.

The brunette forced his long legs to take him over to the table, taking note that his older brother wasn't so much as even acknowledging his presence. And he calls me stubborn, Sam thought. He pulled out the remaining chair and sat down adjacent from Dean, staring at him until his brother finally met his gaze.

"_You done bitching now? Cos I can keep reading," _Dean declared, glancing down at the papers, fingers flying almost too fast for Sam to understand them.

"I'm sorry," Sam apologized, his hand forming an "A" sign. He moved it clockwise a few times over his heart, and gave Dean his best puppy dog eyes. "I just worry about you. You are my brother, you know."

Dean stared at him for a long moment before sighing. _"So are you in, or are you pussying out?"_ a serious expression set upon his features. It slipped into a hint of a smile when his younger brother's expression transformed from a sorry one into his perfected bitch-face.

"Yes, I'm going to help you," Sam replied, annoyance clearly etched into his features. "Where do we start?" He watched his older brother's hands start to fly, his fingers moving quickly and effortlessly while he explained his plan. Sam nodded along, a neutral expression taking over, but he still couldn't push the feeling that there was more going on than what Dean had originally attested to. This was going to be the longest weekend ever; he was sure of it.

**A/N : Thank you all SO much for your kind reviews. It's been a very hard week with my husband having lost his job, so I haven't had much time to write. MANY THANKS goes to zhen123, astafir, Writer With Sprite, Glades of Grey, Adorereading, Imperial Dragon, heather03nmg, Anon, d767468, PrettyGirlyFan, Alibye, JJJFan, idlewild1, shammy101, kissacazador, and Wataru Kisugi. I hope this chapter sufficed. Thank you all again. More to come soon...;)**


	22. Everything You Want

**The Illusionist**

**Chapter 21 : Everything You Want**

Sam's heart was frantically beating in his chest, and he wondered how exactly they had gotten themselves into this situation. It was three o'clock in the morning, and both him and Dean were smack dab in the middle of the Vista Memorial Gardens cemetery, freezing their asses off chasing a loose ghoul.

The day had started off alright, alright for them anyway. They'd gotten in a few hours sleep after finding their father's room, though Sam didn't think his brother had really slept at all. He still looked like the living dead, sick and exhausted, though Dean would never let on that he was either.

They'd grabbed some lunch at a local diner, Sam noticing that his older brother hardly took more than two bites from his cheeseburger before he decided it was time for them to prepare for the hunt that night. All in all, it was supposed to be simple. Find the ghoul, remove its head from its body, clean up, then leave. However, nothing was ever that simple for them.

They'd arrived at the cemetery just after midnight, the temperature hovering just below thirty-two degrees; Dean armed with a sawed-off, a backpack full of lighter fluid, and a flashlight, Sam with an ax and flashlight. It was a bit colder than they'd expected, but neither spoke a word about it. Instead, they kept their shivering to themselves, and their eyes peeled on the darkened landscape before them.

The cemetery was large, tombstones of various shapes and sizes lining the rows and rows of graves. Candles were lit on some, others decorated with flowers and mementos.

They were looking for the newest grave, and both knew it would probably take awhile to find it. The two Winchesters searched for over an hour before they did, and waited another until the creature came lurking through the grave stones. It moved slowly, and even though Sam was the only one to hear the manic gurgling sounds that was coming from its throat, he was sure Dean was plenty aware that it was not a quiet creature.

Though it was harder to see in the dark and with the very little moonlight that was trickling through the late night clouds, they were both able to see the flesh that was rotting on the monster, and the smell was one neither man would soon forget. It reeked of death, the stench wafting through the air, making them both want to gag.

It crept over to the freshly dug grave and began clawing at the dirt, saliva running over its thin lips, and down its chin to the ground below. It was most definitely hungry, and ready for its next meal, but they were determined to not let that happen.

Dean motioned for them to surround it; he taking the front, Sam taking the back. They both moved out simultaneously, and everything was going smoothly until a sound reverberated through the quiet night air, both Sam and the ghoul hearing it at the same time. Dean had stepped on a dead tree branch that had long been forgotten on the earthy ground, and even though the noise wasn't that loud, it was still loud enough to be heard.

The monster's head jerked up automatically at the noise, dead, black eyes searching the cold night, its gaze landing on the deaf hunter.

A disturbing growl came from low in its throat as it jumped to its feet, moving quite fast for something that was not apart of the land of the living. It ran full speed at Dean, the middle Winchester not realizing until damn near the last second.

Sam's eyes widened as he watched his brother hesitate, his fingers fumbling for the trigger of his Baikal as the creature was within inches of him. He managed to fire, but his aim was unprepared and off, the shot hitting the ghoul in its left side instead of its intended target.

It screamed out in pain, a black substance starting to gush from the wound. It lashed out at Dean, claws striking him clean across his chest. The force alone knocked him off his feet and back at least two yards. He landed hard, but missed hitting a tombstone with his head by mere inches.

Sam was already closing in on it when it noticed him, its dead stare fixed on the youngest Winchester. It made a sound that Sam supposed was some sort of laugh, but it was hard to tell because he wasn't really listening. He was too focused on aiming for its neck with the ax he was coming at it with. It dodged easily though, anticipating his move and slapped the weapon out of his hands. The ax fell to the ground with a thud, landing a few feet away from his dazed older brother.

He heard Dean mumbling something, but it was so low, he couldn't make it out. Gritting his teeth, he made a move for the ax, only to have the creature catch him mid-way. It grabbed a hold of his jacket, its long, sharp nails slicing right through the cotton material.

Sam grunted as the nails made contact with the skin of his back, cutting it clean open. Clenching his jaw in an attempt to push away the pain, he lunged for the ax, grabbing it with his right hand and swinging backwards, chopping the ghouls left arm clean off. It fell to the ground with a sickening plopping sound, black liquid pouring from the severed limb and forming a puddle around it.

The monster screamed again in pure agony, though instead of sticking around, it bolted, heading deeper into the cemetery.

Sam didn't waste any more time, and crawled over to Dean who had just managed to sit up. Even in the barely there moonlight,, Sam could see the dark stain of blood on the front of his brother's shirt, three clean marks cutting straight across.

"Dean! Dean! Are you alright?" he asked, gripping the middle Winchester by the collar and shaking him a bit.

Dean's green eyes met his, anger and pain searing through them. "I'm fine," he said in that same raspy, unused voice, but it sounded even worse than it did before, more pained and constricted. He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring his younger brother's outstretched arm.

"That cut looks deep, Dean," Sam stated, holding his right palm flat towards the ground, and his left pointing towards it; then turning his left hand at a slant and running his right index finger across it.

"_I'm fine,"_ he stated, his right hand forming a 'five' shape as he tapped against his chest. He winced at his own touch, but turned the corners of his mouth down, anger creasing his forehead. "I let it get away, dammit!" the words tumbled from his lips, his gravelly voice going in and out.

Sam stared at him and shook his head. "No, Dean, it got away from _us_," Sam corrected him, pointing his right index finger at the right side of his chest, then moving it in a half circle and pointing it at the left side.

"Whatever," Dean mumbled, green eyes scanning the almost pitch-black graveyard, the sound of his voice nearly tearing a hole in his younger brother's heart. He'd never heard his older brother sound so defeated, or disappointed in himself for that matter.

"Let's focus, Dean. Alright?" he asked, grabbing a hold of his older brother's shoulders. He wasn't prepared for the wide-eyed, hurt-filled look that Dean shot him as he jerked out of his grasp. "Dean, what's wrong with you?" Sam questioned, forehead creased in worry and confusion.

"_Nothing! Let's just find this damn sonofabitch!" _Dean signed, fingers moving fast and angry. He bit his lip as he reached for his gun, but Sam didn't miss the barely audible hiss of pain that still got through his barrier.

The youngest Winchester forced himself to keep his mouth shut for the moment, recalling how bossy his older brother could be. He bent down and grabbed their flashlights, handing one to Dean and keeping the other in his tightly controlled grip. He didn't say a word as they moved forward, deeper into the heart of the cemetery.

Sam's heart was pounding in his chest, and he wondered why nothing was ever simple for them. Ever. This was supposed to be an easy corner the beast and chop its head off situation, but needless to say, that wasn't happening. Instead, he and his brother were lost in a vast graveyard with a crazed ghoul running around, missing a hand, of course.

Dean's light was on the earth's floor, the dim rays highlighting the black blood that was probably still spilling from the creature. It was hard to see, but at least it was there, and gave them some semblance of its direction. The terrain was rocky for the most part, patches of dead grass popping up here and there, but nonetheless, it was a cold, hard ground, not exactly nice to land on. At least, that's what Sam thought as the ghoul suddenly popped up from nowhere, slamming him straight back onto the dirt floor.

Any air that was in his lungs before he fell was forcibly pushed out as his back crashed into the ground, his mouth immediately opening in an attempt to pull more back in. The ghoul didn't give him much of a chance though as it backhanded him with its remaining hand, a crazed sneer on its rotting face, showcasing it disgustingly decayed blackened teeth. They were surprisingly sharp looking though, that much Sam could tell as it moved its head towards him, mouth open wide.

The sound of the gunshot echoed through the empty cemetery, and Sam watched as its head was no longer coming towards him because most of it was now in chunks, covering the ground and himself. He watched as it keeled over in slow motion, its body slumping to the ground with a light thud.

His gaze slowly traveled from the remains of the creature to his older brother, black blood and brain matter spattered across his face. His brow was drawn, a look of fierce determination still set upon his features.

"You okay, Sammy?" he asked after a few moments, worry encased in his green eyes as well as his expression. He bent down, laying a hand on his brother's shoulder.

"Yeah, I'm fine, Dean," Sam said with a reassuring nod, accepting his older brother's hand to help him up. "Are you?" he questioned the middle Winchester when he got to his feet, hating the non-answer he received.

Dean was already pouring quarts of lighter fluid all over the creature's dead body, not wasting any time. Sam watched as he retrieved a book of matches from his coat pocket and struck one, throwing the single burning match onto the corpse, setting the deceased monster ablaze.

"_Let's go,"_ Dean ordered, using only one hand to point forward instead of both, his Baikal still occupying his right hand.

Sam didn't move an inch, instead, he folded his arms across his chest, standing stock still. He didn't say a word until his older brother realized he wasn't being followed.

The older hunter stopped in his tracks, brow drawn as he was forced to set his gun down so he could communicate.

"_What are you doing? I said 'let's go', so come on, Sam. We don't have time for this, remember? We've got to get you back to your normal life, so get a move on." _His motions were sharp and defensive, as they were before.

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell is going on," Sam declared, deciding to pull a John move and stop signing. He didn't like doing it, but if Dean wasn't going to talk, so to speak, neither was he.

"_I don't know what you're talking about, Sam. So why don't you quit-"_

Sam cut him off before he could continue, blueish-green eyes aglow. "I'm not going to quit anything, Dean," the shaggy-haired brunette stated, keeping his arms crossed as he moved towards his older brother. "You aren't acting right. You've lost a ton of weight, and every time I touch you—and not in a chick-flick type of way—you jerk away from me like I'm going to hurt you. Now tell me the truth, Dean. What the hell is going on?"

"Nothing is going on dammit!" Dean shouted, anger pinching his features. "So just shut the fuck up, and let's get going! Don't want you to be late for your interview or anything," he added, the words stinging his younger brother to the core.

"I'm sorry that I chose to live a normal life, Dean! Excuse me for not wanting to be a freak anymore, but can you seriously blame me? If you would have had the opportunity or the chance to get away from this life, wouldn't you?"

Dean moved towards his younger brother this time, eyes narrowed in white hot anger, a shaking finger pointing at the youngest Winchester's chest. "No, Sam, because there's no way in hell I could have left you!" His voice sounded painful to use, and as soon as Sam heard it, guilt flooded his system, but he held his resolve, not standing down.

"I'm sorry, Dean, but it was-"

"It was nothing," Dean stated, his tone teetering on dangerous, though he had no way of knowing. "So just shut your mouth, and let's get going. _End of discussion," _he declared, holding out his left hand palm facing up as he slammed his right index finger against it; then holding both hands up, palms facing his chest, he kept his left hand still while he moved his right hand along it and down, letting it drop off sharply. Without another word, he turned his back to his little brother, picking up his gun and heading out of the cemetery.

Sam watched him, and after a few minutes shook his head, frustration written all over his face. Bending down, he picked his own weapon up off the ground and started jogging back to the car. He wasn't done with his older brother yet. He was going to get to the bottom of what was eating at his brother, even it did make him act like a dick.

SPNSPNSPN

The drive back to the motel was quiet with the exception of the smacking sound Dean's hand made when it came into contact with the back of his younger brother's; the latter of the two attempting to turn on the radio. Sam stared indignantly at the older hunter, pulling his hand back and rubbing it slightly with his other hand. Dean met his gaze, eyebrows still pulled down in anger, though Sam didn't miss the flash of pain that ran through his brother's eyes before he forced his glare back to the two-lane road.

It wasn't long before they pulled into the motel's parking lot, the vacancy sign still flashing on and off. They both exited the car, Dean leading the way back to the room. He opened the door and removed his jacket, throwing it over the back of one of the motel chairs. Without saying another word, he went over to his duffel and removed some clean clothes from it and disappeared into the bathroom.

Sam didn't miss the glance his older brother sent his way though before exiting the room; and surprisingly, he didn't slam the door.

The brunette let out a long sigh, and sat down on his designated bed, running a hand though his sticky hair. His nose wrinkled in disgust when dried blood and small pieces of flesh came back on his fingertips. "I do not miss this," he mumbled, staring at the mess on his hands. "But, I do miss you," the barely audible words came out as he glanced at the closed bathroom door. "Even if you are a dick sometimes. A dick that hates to tell his little brother what the hell's been going on his life since he decided to change his number, and forget to give it to the said little brother."

_Shit, I'm with the guy for less than three days, and I'm already talking to myself. Get a grip, Sam. You know how stubborn you can be, and he knows that too. _

He waited as patiently as he could while Dean got cleaned up, and he knew the mood his older brother was in would mean there wouldn't be shit for hot water by the time it was his turn to shower.

A half an hour later, the door opened, remnants of steam still in the air. Dean came out, still ignoring the six foot four brother that was sitting on the bed next to his.

Sam watched as he disposed of his dirty clothes into a black trash bag, and pulled back the covers on his bed. He made sure to keep his back to his little brother the whole time, laying on his side facing the motel window.

The younger hunter stared at him, hurt swimming in his blue-green eyes. Just under three days and their relationship was damn near shot to hell, after three years without even seeing each other. Sam pursed his lips, determined to set things straight. He got up from the bed, and instead of heading straight for the shower, he went over to his older brother's temporary bed, laying a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Leave me alone, Sam. Go take a shower. You stink," the whispered words were said, but Sam didn't move an inch. "I mean it, Sammy. Just leave me alone," Dean stated, back still turned to his little brother.

Clenching his jaw, Sam ignored the command and gripped his brother's shoulder, pulling Dean towards him.

The older hunter immediately jerked away, and sat up, green eyes filled with anger and fear. "Leave me alone, Sam! How many times do I have to tell you?"

"What happened to you while I was gone, Dean?" the youngest Winchester asked, concern etched into his visage. "What happened between you and Dad?"

"Nothing, Sammy. Absolutely nothing. Me and Dad hunted shit, life went on without you. End of story. Got it?"

Sam was about to respond when he caught sight of a dark blotch that was slowly growing in size on Dean's t-shirt, his heart quickening its pace. Anger instantly replaced the concern.

"Dammit, Dean, why didn't you let me look at that?" Sam exclaimed, hurriedly reaching for their first aid kit. As he stepped closer to his older brother, he noted how the fear in his eyes had grown considerably, and the way his body looked too tense to be even remotely comfortable. "Let me see it," he instructed softly, even though he knew Dean couldn't even hear his voice. There was just something so wrong, and he hated the fact that his older brother was keeping it from him. He hadn't realized how much he had sounded like their father before, and wasn't exactly something he wanted to be told either.

"I'm fine, Sammy. It's just a scratch. Just go wash off. I'll take care of it." Dean's voice was much lower now, and no where near as angry as it had been.

"It looks like you might need stitches. At least let me see it," he asked, worry still encased in his eyes as he moved closer.

"I just need a bandage or two. I'll be fine. Just go," Dean tried again, but Sam still wouldn't budge.

"You've spent your entire life taking care of me and Dad, so why won't you let me just take care of you for once? I don't bite, I promise," Sam offered up the lighthearted remark, the corner of his lips turning up just a bit.

"Thanks, but I got it. _Really,"_ he said, signing the last word, right index finger hovering in front of chin before he moved it in an arch away from his body.

Sam reluctantly handed the first aid kit over, worry still stretching across his face.

"_You really do stink. Go, I got this."_

Hesitantly, Sam backed away and retrieved some clean clothes of his own. Just before he went into the bathroom, Dean spoke again.

"I'm sorry for earlier, Sammy. Thanks for coming. You know..." He cleared his throat about to continue, but Sam saved him the trouble.

"You're welcome," Sam intercepted, staring back at him. In the back of his mind, he hoped he could possibly convince his brother to stay with him back at Stanford, at least for a little while. Give them some time to catch up on everything, but Sam had a feeling that wasn't going to happen, and Dean was never going to tell him what was wrong. Instead, he was going to continue hunting, and looking for their father, paying the price for something he probably had no control over.

That was just the Winchester way of life.

**A/N : Thank you all SO MUCH for the well wishes. I really do appreciate them; and the kind reviews you all left. MANY THANKS goes to babyreaper, d767468, kissacazador, JJJFan, Wataru Kisugi, Writer With Sprite, Agnes, and Anon. THANK YOU all so much again. I hope this chapter sufficed, and I kept them in character. One more chap to go...**


	23. Here Comes the Sun

**The Illusionist**

**Chapter 22 : Here Comes the Sun**

The drive back to Palo Alto was a long one, and Dean hated every minute of it. He hated the fact that this might be the last time he ever saw his little brother, because all hunters knew that tomorrow was never promised, regardless of how much you wished it was. And Dean was a hunter in every sense of the word. He wondered sometimes what it would be like to not be one, to not save people and kill things that went bump in the night, to live like his brother was living. He wanted to understand it, but a part of him just couldn't. It felt like it was his duty, and there was no way in hell he could ever see himself sitting behind some desk at an office job. It just wasn't in the cards.

Besides, he still had to find their father, and doing it alone wouldn't be easy.

It was almost midnight when he pulled up in front of his little brother's apartment. He forced a fake smile on his face and turned towards Sam. _"Home sweet home,"_ he said, bringing his thumb and fingers together and tapping the side of his chin, then moving his hand an inch or so upwards and tapping the side of his cheek as well.

"Yeah," Sam agreed with a nod, a fake grin plastered on his visage as well, his hands tightly clasping his bag.

Silence fell between them for a moment, an awkward one even Dean could sense. He sighed and tapped his fingers on the wheel, breaking it. "You know, you can always come with me. If Jessica's the kind of girl you say she is, she'll wait for you here." He kept his gaze straight ahead for a minute before looking at his little brother, already knowing what type of reaction he was going to get.

Sam let the fake smile linger on his face for a little while longer, but shook his head. "I can't, Dean. I wish I could, but I have a life here. A normal one. A _good_ one." He paused for a moment, preparing to throw his proposition out there. "I-I was wondering if—"

"She's waiting on you," Dean stated, cutting him off, his eyes glued to the dash. He hated good-byes. They were one of the suckiest things in the world, and he'd never been good at them for as long as he could remember.

"Right," Sam nodded, letting his hand trail to the door handle. He let out a sigh, and slowly pulled it back, cracking open the door.

"It was nice seeing you again, Sammy," Dean said, hoping his voice was coming out stronger than how he truly felt. "Take care of yourself." He let his gaze travel back to his little brother, a half smile on his lips when he saw Sam's one-leg-out-of-the-car-one-still-in position.

"You too, Dean. You too...," he let his voice trail off. He forced the rest of his body out of the Impala, his left hand still gripping his pack.

Dean watched him hesitate a little while longer before his lips started to move again. As soon Dean read the word love, he held a hand up, bringing his little brother's words to a halt. "No chick-flick moments, dude. I know what you're going to say." He waited a moment before mumbling, "Me too."

Sam shook his head and even laughed a little at his older brother's reluctance to tell him he loved him, but he accepted it with a nod and started walking towards the apartment. He turned just before he went in, and waved again, the same goofy grin still on his face.

Dean nodded and threw his hand out in a quick wave, then started the engine. He gave his little brother one last glance before pulling off, heart breaking with each new piece of pavement the Impala's tires traveled over.

He didn't get far though when his phone vibrated in his pocket. His forehead creased in confusion as he retrieved it from his jeans and flipped it open, NO SIGNAL flashing on the screen.

_That's strange,_ he thought as he closed it, his gaze falling on the car radio. He watched the dial begin moving back and forth on its own, and he immediately knew there was a problem.

The tires squealed on the pavement as he made a U-turn and headed back towards Sam's apartment. _Something's wrong, something's wrong..._The words repeated in his head like a mantra, over and over again as he came to an abrupt stop a little ways away from the building. He jumped out, and ran towards the door his little brother had just entered minutes before, heart pounding in his chest.

He flung it open and went inside, the hair on the back of his neck already on end. He saw light coming from underneath the bedroom door, and immediately ran towards it. Without even trying the knob, he kicked it open, a screaming brother and flames meeting him on the other side. He hesitated just a second as his gaze went to the ceiling, Jessica sprawled across it just as their mother had been so many years before.

He pushed the thought away and ran over to the bed, using strength he knew he didn't really have and grabbed his little brother. He used himself as a shield and got in between Sam and the fire, pushing him out the door before the room fully ignited. He managed to get them both outside where a crowd had already started to gather. He dragged Sam back to the Impala, and opened the passenger door, depositing him safely inside.

"You okay?" he asked, crouching down in front of him. He watched the brunette shake his head, tears already cascading down his cheeks. He could read Jess's name on his brother's quivering lips, and leaned forward, pulling Sam into an embrace. "I'm sorry, Sammy," he said, placing a hand on the back of his brother's head. He could feel Sam's body trembling, and a dampness spreading on his shoulder.

It had been a long time since he'd had to comfort his little brother, and he never imagined that this weekend would wind up like this.

Sam didn't deserve for this to happen—Dean knew this, and a part of him wondered what was going to happen now. _Sam's normal life was gone the minute that girl started to burn on the ceiling_, Dean thought, and he hated the image that came rushing back to his mind. _Just like Mom..._

His train of thought was broken as he felt Sam starting to push away from him. He backed up, giving the youngest Winchester some space.

"I-I need a minute, Dean," Sam said, tears still slipping from his eyes and falling to the ground below. "Please," he added when Dean still hadn't responded, the older hunter's mind finally coming fully back to the present.

"Yeah, sure thing, Sammy. I'll be right over there," he stated, nodding towards the crowd. "Don't do anything stupid," he added, green eyes glistening in the din of the streetlights.

"I won't," Sam clarified with a shake of the head. Dean watched as he put his face in his hands, blocking the outside world from view.

Dean slowly backed away, and walked over to the crowd that was now much larger in size than it had been before. His gaze fell back on the remnants of the burning apartment building, and he was back again, twenty-one years before. Even though he had only been four, he could still recall the way his father had screamed when he had seen their mother burning; the way the man had rushed out of the room holding baby Sammy and placing him in his arms and telling him to "not look back and go, Dean! Now!"

Dean shook the memory from his head, realizing that now was not the time nor place to wallow in the past. He had a brother to take care of, and a father to find.

He glanced back at the Impala, Sam standing behind it now with the trunk open. He walked back over, mouth open to say something, but no words actually making it out. He watched as Sam finished checking a gun, and threw it back in the trunk, tears still falling.

"We've got work to do," Sam stated, his eyes avoiding his older brother's.

Dean nodded in response, knowing that just about anything he said at this point probably wouldn't have an effect on Sam, but the kid was right; they did have work to do, and plenty of it.

He only hoped they would both survive through it.

**A/N : After almost TWO years, it's finished, and I can't THANK you all enough for your reviews, and feedback. It's meant so much to me, and really helped me in the writing process. So, MANY, MANY THANKS goes to shammy101, Anon, babyreaper, melancholyblood, JJJFan, kissacazador, and Glades of Grey; and the rest of you who have reviewed past chapters, or put me on a favorite or alert list. THANK YOU all once again, and I hope you've enjoyed this story. **


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